


Yes, Captain

by marlowe_tops



Series: Yes, Captain [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Domesticity, Howling Commandos - Freeform, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Spanking, War Era, cuddly bdsm, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe_tops/pseuds/marlowe_tops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starts pre-Serum, in which Bucky takes seriously terrible care of himself because he’s trying to stifle the feelings he keeps having for Steve. Steve gets so pissed that he flat out orders Bucky into eating and sleeping and they both quickly realize Bucky loves being ordered around, but their new-forged domestic bliss is quickly damaged by the encroaching war.</p><p>~</p><p>“Yes, Captain,” Bucky sasses, when he’s capable of speech again.</p><p>Steve stills. His head tilts very slightly. Not shocked, not angry. Considering.</p><p>Bucky feels adrenaline flood through his body. This little punk is ninety pounds wet, and Bucky is absolutely frozen in his chair intimidated by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for severe self-neglect and sleep-deprivation in the first chapter. Updates to happen when they're written (which, given the rate that I'm writing lately, will be 2-3x/week).

The exhaustion weighs in every bone of Bucky’s body. He can feel it strung from muscle to sinew like notes on a violin string, and every stroke is off-key and shrieking. 

But it drowns out the thoughts he’d rather not have, so he welcomes it. Lets himself focus on the swing of the hammer in his hand. Each time he draws his hammer back, he turns it slightly in his palm, wood sliding against callouses, and brings it down to ring against the metal, sending vibrations through the steel and his own body. One strike, then another, pounding through his bones and dulling the shrieking of exhaustion down to a mechanical thud.

This is how his days go, and he throws himself into them entirely. Hour by hour, until the whistle blows, and he staggers home.

His night will be a blur of city lights and perfume. An underground club, a girl on each arm. Alcohol, maybe something harder, and it’ll overlay the exhaustion in his body and mind with a haze of sensation and pleasure. Enough to distract him. Enough to keep his thoughts and desires muffled. Day after day, until the suffocation kills them.

Or kills him. Whichever comes first.

But there’s one hour, between the factory and the bar, that he’ll be at home awake and lucid instead of passed out either in his own bed or someone else’s. It’s the best hour of his day, and the worst.

Steve’s on his feet when Bucky comes through the door. 

He has that look of half-aborted action, as if he heard Bucky coming up the stairs and got up to do something that he’s since thought the better of. Hug him, yell at him, maybe both. But when he sees Bucky, his face just falls, and somewhere under the haze of sleep-deprivation and this morning’s hangover Bucky’s heart gives a guilty twinge.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says, putting his trademark smile on his face. That smile never lets him down. No matter how tired he is, no one seems to see through it. No one but Steve. The girls still fall into his arms and the foreman gives him a raise—a few more dollars a week, and now they eat beans two nights a week for dinner instead of five—but Steve just looks sad and disappointed.

“Bucky,” Steve says. There’s a lecture waiting in his voice. Sympathy and concern all stewed together with the frustration and disappointment. Part of Bucky wonders, the way he always has, how long Steve will put up with his bullshit before he’ll finally call it quits and leave Bucky alone with his own failure.

Steve’s the best thing in his life, and Steve’s the reason Bucky doesn’t dare trust himself as himself. If he has the energy to look at Steve—to feel feelings, to think thoughts—then there will be a problem. And then Steve really will leave him.

“You look like hell,” Steve says, accusation and worry sharpening the edge of his gentle voice.

“Hell’s own golden boy,” Bucky counters, because he’s learned that his glib tongue is one of the last things to go. Exhaustion and substances kill his capacity to question his own deviant thoughts, but they leave him his reckless smile and his wicked tongue, and that’s all he needs to get by. Trusting his body to know how to move through the apartment without stumbling even at this level of exhaustion, he steps around Steve and heads into their little cupboard of a kitchen. “Is there food?”

“Of course there’s food,” Steve says, following him in. “If I’m only going to see you for an hour a day anymore, you can be damn sure that I’m going to make sure it’s an hour where you get a hot meal in you.”

There’s so much bitterness in Steve’s voice. So much pain for the way Bucky’s been pushing him away. More and more every year, because every year the weight in his chest gets worse and Steve somehow gets more ethereally beautiful with his long-lashed blue eyes and his soft, red lips.

The guilt makes him stagger and Bucky catches himself against the wall so he doesn’t fall.

“ _Bucky_!”

Steve’s fingers close around his wrist, worried. Bucky turns his face away. He feels the hand squeeze tight for a moment and then release.

“Sit down,” Steve orders, voice sharp with anger.

Too exhausted to argue, Bucky pulls out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and drops into it.

Steve serves some kind of stew from a pot on the stove and puts the bowl in front of Bucky. Root vegetables, healthy and filling. Bucky knows it will be delicious, but he’s not sure if he’ll even be able to taste it. Everything tastes like ashes these days to his drugged senses.

“Eat,” Steve says, and Bucky realizes he’s been staring at the bowl. Mechanically, he dips the spoon into it and raises it to his mouth. Chews. Swallows. 

Steve watches the first few bites, and only serves himself once he’s certain Bucky is eating. He sits across the table, watching Bucky with sullen, angry eyes. 

The stray thought escapes through Bucky’s mind that Steve looks incandescent when he’s angry.

“You coming with me tonight?” he asks. He always asks, although Steve usually says no. Sometimes Bucky coaxes harder, until Steve says yes. It’s their weird compromise, that makes them both miserable and they know it. When Steve goes with him, it gives Bucky an opportunity to spend time with Steve in a situation where he doesn’t feel the guilt. And it makes Steve less angry and worried when he’s along to supervise instead of staying home alone to stew in his frustration.

Steve looks surprised at the question, even though Bucky always asks it. His surprise surprises Bucky, and Bucky tilts his head in confusion.

“You’re not going,” Steve tells him. Anger’s still rippling through his voice like those vibrations through steel.

Bucky’s mind is sluggish and he doesn’t get it. “I always go out.”

“You can barely _stand_ , Bucky,” Steve says. Bucky’s never heard him this angry. Spoon pausing above the bowl, Bucky stares at him. “You’re not going out. You’re going to bed.”

Bucky opens his mouth to object, but his words die at the look on Steve’s face. It’s that never-back-down intensity that he gets, but Bucky’s never seen quite this much heat behind it. 

One night early to bed won’t take too much of the edge off his carefully hoarded exhaustion. And Bucky doesn’t actually want to work and drink himself to death. 

“Sure, Captain,” he agrees, letting his spoon fall back into his bowl. He means for it to come out as sass, but even though the words are there, the energy isn’t. 

“God, Bucky,” Steve breathes out, rising quickly and setting a shoulder under Bucky’s arm to help get him up. It’s laughable, seeing tiny little Steve try to hoist him up, but Bucky’s still got enough coordination in his young, strong body that he can get himself up. He trusts Steve to guide him, and together they make their way into Bucky’s bedroom. Steve pushes him down on the bed, starting to unbutton Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky just seals his mouth shut, not trusting any of the jokes that come to mind.

Diligent—and chaste, damnably chaste—Steve strips him down to his underwear and pulls the covers over Bucky.

“You’re such a damned mother hen,” Bucky gripes at him, eyes closing tiredly.

“Shut up and sleep,” Steve says. “Or I swear to god I will tie you to your bed, Barnes.”

Bucky means to grunt at him, but it comes out a little wavery, too close to a keen, too close to betraying the way blood suddenly rushes south at that thought. He doesn’t know whether to bless or curse his body for its ability to get hard no matter how drunk or tired he gets. Right now it’s cursing.

But that’s the last thought he has, because the bed is warm and he is farther past exhausted than he thought it was possible to get.

~

When he wakes in the morning, it’s the first time he’s woken up without a hangover in… he doesn’t remember, and he’s not sure he wants to think about it too closely.

The dawn light warms the room in golden pastels, and as Bucky sits up he sees Steve in the doorframe. Standing guard, but now he’s fast asleep with his head resting against the wood. It looks uncomfortable for him, but the view from here is exquisite. Steve’s long lashes fan across his cheeks, and his lips are wet and slightly parted. Moments like this make Bucky wish that he could draw, so that he could capture this moment in lines on a page and keep it locked safely away forever.

It’s so endearing that Steve stood guard over him like this, making certain that he slept, but at the same time Bucky is annoyed and worried about what Steve’s night on the floor would do to his fragile body. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Bucky watches him, not yet willing to wake him up and break the moment. But he has to get to work, they both do, as much as he wishes that he could spend a day with Steve—the way they used to, sweet and innocent, giving each other hell until they both couldn’t talk from laughing.

“Now which of us isn’t taking good care of himself?” Bucky asks, watching the way Steve’s eyes blink and his brow pulls together as he wakes and reorients himself.

“You,” Steve responds, accusatory.

Bucky reaches down, holding out his hand to help Steve to his feet, and he’s glad that Steve takes it. Maybe there’s a space of truce in that for them. Maybe Steve will forgive him, and they can go back to getting by and pretending that nothing’s broken between them.

Their hands linger together, and Steve looks up, meeting his eyes. He still looks so determined, still angry at Bucky for not taking proper care of himself, and the intensity of it makes Bucky’s mouth go dry. Steve hasn’t forgiven him yet, and some part of Bucky—some _large_ part—is drawn to it. 

He’s still exhausted, and now that his mind’s a little clearer he realizes he’s close to making himself sick from it. Bucky has the constitution of a horse, but sooner or later it will run out. He’s grateful that Steve isn’t about to let that happen.

“I have to go to work,” Bucky says.

“I know.” Steve’s voice is gentle, but he doesn’t break their gaze. “When you get home, I’m going to yell at you.”

Bucky’s lips tip sideways in the first genuine smile he’s had in weeks. “I look forward to it.”

~

This time when he gets home, Steve is ready for him.

He’s seated facing the door, back straight and chin up, and the look in his eyes is one of pure intensity. It freezes Bucky in place and he swallows. That look means that he’s still in trouble, that Steve hasn’t forgotten and isn’t ready to forgive. Part of Bucky just wants to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. He’d do anything for Steve. Just being around Steve makes him want to be a better man. But he’s doing _this_ for Steve, because there are few things in the world he wants more than to delay the look of disgust on Steve’s face when he finds out the truth.

“Go into the kitchen and sit down,” Steve orders. Yesterday he was almost vibrating with anger, but now he’s pure steel. 

Bucky can’t manage sass in the face of that absolute command. He efficiently sheds coat and hat, hanging them by the door, and heads into the kitchen to take a seat. He smells potatoes roasting in the oven, and his stomach growls. 

Steve follows him in at his own pace, and as Steve passes him, light fingers drift over the back of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky just about bolts out of his skin. He can’t give himself away. He won’t. So he just tenses all of his muscles and tries to ignore the ticklish way that the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, as if every last one of them is reaching out in plea to be touched again.

This is going to be a problem. Steve’s figured out that Bucky reacts positively to being ordered around. (By Steve. Only by Steve. Bucky’s still ready to sass every cop in Brooklyn if he’s given half the opportunity.) And Bucky’s already turned on by it, his pants tight and cheeks starting to flush. It’s a mercy that he’s never been an obvious blusher—not like Steve—and he’s sitting down with his lap obscured by the table. As long as he doesn’t have to stand up before he resolves this, he’ll be fine.

Steve takes out a pan and puts oil in it, starting to fry up some eggs. “You’re not going out tonight,” he says. “In case you hadn’t already figured that out.”

Bucky watches Steve’s back as he cooks. His shoulders are tense and his spine is straight. There’s still anger in there, but he’s learning how to turn it to steel. Learning very, very effectively. It makes Bucky wonder what Steve’s capable of becoming. All his life Steve’s been the kid who won’t back down from a fight and doesn’t know how to pick his battles.

He just picked a battle with Bucky, and he is winning. 

“Yes, Captain,” Bucky says, when he’s capable of speech again.

Steve stills. His head tilts very slightly. Not shocked, not angry. Considering.

Bucky feels adrenaline flood through his body. This little punk is ninety pounds wet, and Bucky is absolutely frozen in his chair intimidated by him. 

After a few long, adrenaline-laced seconds, Steve flips over the eggs and resumes cooking.

Bucky doesn’t dare move without permission, and that’s part of the appeal. He knows that he could. He could tell Steve to stuff it and he could go out. Do whatever he wanted. But it isn’t physical power that Steve has over him, it’s emotional. Defying him would damage the trust between them, the trust that’s already frayed and weak from the way Bucky’s been acting.

Obeying allows him a space of truce. It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a bridge between them. As long as he obeys, they won’t have to have a fight that will leave them both miserable. He won’t have to leave the house and go out to numb his senses to try to forget Steve. As long as he obeys, the inevitable is delayed.

Steve puts a plate in front of him: eggs and potatoes. There’s a split second where Bucky wonders if he should wait for permission to eat, but Steve says “Eat” as he’s sitting down, and Bucky picks up his fork.

Flavors are more vivid on his tongue today, and he eats hungrily, shoveling eggs and potatoes into his mouth and keeping half an eye on Steve to try and gauge the situation. Steve watches him in return, eating at a more sedate pace. He’s still eating when Bucky finishes, his gaze unrelenting, and Bucky can’t hold his eye for more than a second at a time.

“Why’ve you been doing this, Buck?” Steve asks. The edge of command is still there, in case Bucky had any thoughts about ducking the question.

He tries anyway. “I like going out.”

“Sure. Two, three times a week. Going out seven nights a week makes it seem like you’re running from something.”

Of course he’s running from something. He’s running from the day where Steve rejects him. 

Tensing his jaw, Bucky looks off at the far corner of the room. The guilt in his belly just from keeping a secret from Steve makes him feel sick. The guilt from feeling what he does at all is worse. But he still can’t lie to Steve. “I don’t like the places my thoughts go when I’m sober. When I’m tired and drunk, my head’s quiet.”

It’s an honest, heartfelt answer, and Steve’s gaze drops. He’s too respectful to push the topic after a confession like that.

There’s a silence between them, before Steve finds the one exception to his respectful space. “Have you been thinking of hurting yourself?”

Bucky’s head lifts in shock. “Christ. No. It’s not that, I swear it.”

“Okay,” Steve says, letting the topic go. The secret is Bucky’s to keep. 

Steve finishes eating and clears their plates. Bucky stays sitting and watches him. He’s so graceful in every movement. Steve has always seemed very _present_ in his body, even as fragile as he is. Washing the dishes without a word, Steve dries them and puts them away before he returns his attention to Bucky.

“I’m not going to let you keep doing this. Whatever’s eating you up, I won’t let it kill you. You’re going to go out no more than two nights a week. You’re going to get enough sleep. You’re going to keep your drinking within reason, and you’re not going to touch anything harder than alcohol or cigarettes. Am I clear?”

Bucky looks away again to think it over, running his tongue over his lower lip. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t have a way to silence the thoughts in his head. But there is one thing. His head is quieter now than it’s been in years. He’s not worrying, not cursing himself for the stray thoughts that go through his head. 

Wondering if there’s a way to keep this safe space that he’s in now, Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, studying his expression for a moment before he says, very softly; “Make me.”

Steve’s breath catches. His eyes flicker wide, almost alarmed as he studies Bucky’s face. This time, Bucky doesn’t look away. Steve is his anchor. If he’s not allowed to numb himself with drink, then the only other option he knows is to trust Steve. 

“Okay,” Steve says, a little bit breathless. He swallows hard, but then his gaze hardens and Bucky knows that he has a plan. “We’re going to try something. If you want to stop at any point, we will, and I expect you to tell me that.” 

Bucky nods, still holding his gaze. He’s more than willing to trust himself to Steve’s control, and now he absolutely wants to know about this plan.

“Get up,” Steve orders. “We’re going to the living room.”

Bucky rises, following him out. He bites his own lip once, hard, feeling his heart start to pound with anticipation and the need to obey.

Steve stops him by the couch, putting a light hand on Bucky’s arm to pause him. “Here. Stand at attention.”

Ready to do anything Steve asks, Bucky puts his shoulders back and his chin up. 

“You’re allowed to call me Captain,” Steve says, just the slightest bit of humor in his voice. “I liked that.”

It earns a smile from Bucky in return. “Yes, Captain,” he says, not sassing him this time.

“Turn your back to me,” Steve commands. His voice is gentler now. He doesn’t need to show the steel in order to get Bucky to obey. They both know it’s there.

Swallowing, Bucky obeys. Behind him, he hears Steve unlatch his belt, and then the whisper of leather through cloth as he pulls it off. 

“Give me your wrists.”

_Oh._ Bucky’s eyes widen, but he puts his wrists behind his back. 

Steve ties the belt around them securely, and then places a gentle hand at the center of Bucky’s back. “Kneel.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Bucky drops to his knees. The hand on his back slides up into his hair, grip tightening briefly and then letting go. “Stay,” Steve orders. He crosses the room and fetches a book, then comes back to sit on the couch. 

Remaining patient on his knees, Bucky watches as Steve opens his book, finds the page he was on, and then settles his hand into Bucky’s hair. He toys with the strands while he reads, fingertips gently massaging at the scalp, and Bucky just _melts_.

It feels absolutely blissful, and Bucky’s mind goes wonderfully silent. There’s nothing in his head, nothing in the world but the feeling of Steve’s fingers in his hair and the knowledge that Steve is inches away from him and warm with approval. He’s certain that if he were a cat, he’d be purring.

His mind is slow with pleasure, so he’s not sure how much time passes before he realizes that Steve has yet to turn a page in his book. Looking up, he finds Steve watching him with a fond smile, and Bucky smiles at him in return. 

“Doing okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods, almost nuzzling against the hand in his hair. 

“Calmer,” Bucky reports. His knees are starting to hurt, so he shifts sideways, settling onto his hip. The fingers in his hair don’t even pause. Trusting, Bucky lets his head drop onto Steve’s thigh, closing his eyes and relaxing into the pleasure and comfort.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Steve is shaking his shoulder to wake him. “Bucky. Buck.”

Dizzy, Bucky straightens up, blinking at him. 

Steve’s smile is reassuring and calm. “Come on, let’s get you untied. Your wrists okay?” He drops to his knees behind Bucky, swiftly releasing the belt and starting to gently massage feeling back into Bucky’s hands.

Bucky’s hands are numb and prickly from being restrained for so long, but Steve’s massage feels incredible. Everything feels warm and blissful, a thousand times better than the best buzz he’s ever had. “They’re okay,” he answers.

After a couple minutes, Steve releases his hands and comes around to look into Bucky’s eyes. “We can do this again anytime you want,” he promises, smiling up at Bucky. “But right now, I want you in bed.”

“Yes, Captain,” Bucky murmurs, feeling relaxed and sleepy. Steve grins at the nickname and gives him a gentle push.

Curling into his own bed, Bucky settles his own hand into his hair as he closes his eyes. 

It’s the best sleep Bucky’s had in years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky goes looking for trouble.

Bucky works like a new man the next day. His hammer falls true, rivets always go in on the first try, and he handles the steel better than he ever has before. He’s a favorite with the men for his good cheer and willingness to lend a helping hand, and near the end of the day men gather around just to watch him work and cheer him on.

“I don’t know what’s got into you, Barnes,” the foreman says, standing around in awe with the rest of them, “but keep it up.”

Bucky grins all the way home, excited with hope that Steve will be waiting for him.

He isn’t. The apartment is empty and cold.

Mood dissolving, he takes off his coat and hat and stands blankly in the middle of the living room. A terrified whim makes him check Steve’s room to make sure his things are all there. They are. The bed’s neatly made, and Steve’s sketchbook is laying open on it. It’s turned to a page with a sketch of Bucky’s face, grinning rogueishly at something off to the side. 

He smiles, reassured, and shuts the door just as he hears swift feet on the stairs. 

Steve bursts through the door, out of breath and apologetic. Bucky grins wide at the sight of him. Steve ran home to get to him.

“I’m sorry, I—“ He’s interrupted by a fit of coughing.

Bucky clasps his shoulders to steady him. “Breathe. You can tell me once you’ve caught your breath.”

Steve gives him one of those wide smiles like he thinks Bucky’s the center of the world, and wow, he hasn’t earned one of those lately. He used to get them on a daily basis when they were kids. 

Once Steve is breathing evenly again, Bucky steers him into the kitchen and sits him down. It’s his turn to cook, even though he can’t make much other than beans.

“I got held up late at work,” Steve says.

“You shouldn’t a run home,” Bucky scolds, thrilled though he is.

“Couldn’t help it. Wanted to be here for you.”

Bucky puts beans in a pot and makes toast. Steve has never complained about beans for dinner, although Bucky sometimes wants to. But considering how much of his pay has been going to alcohol, Bucky keeps his mouth shut.

He puts a plate in front of Steve. After last night, he wonders if he’s been forgiven. The tension between them is gone.

“Can we…” he starts, then loses his nerve and swallows hard.

Steve lifts his head, gaining context from the look on Bucky’s face, and grins. “Course we can, Buck.”

Grinning back at him, Bucky starts to blush. 

As they finish, he moves to grab the dishes, but Steve takes them from him. “Go take off your shirt, kneel on the rug in the living room, and wait for me. I’ll clean up.”

Bucky swallows hard and goes. He puts his shirt away in his room and then kneels as requested on the rug. Hands resting lightly on his thighs, he takes a deep breath, letting everything clear from his mind except for the necessity of obeying Steve. Once the last few dishes are away, Steve emerges from the kitchen and awards him with a broad smile before coming to kneel behind him.

He hears Steve slip off his tie, and puts his wrists behind his back to be tied. 

Steve’s grip on his wrists is steady, and he gives Bucky’s forearms a reassuring squeeze once he’s done. “I want you to stay right here. If you become uncomfortable, you will tell me.”

Bucky nods once, and Steve moves away. 

He fetches his sketchbook from his room and returns to sit on the couch, tucking his feet up. “Turn a little more toward me,” Steve orders, and then begins to draw. 

Bucky focuses on his breath, keeping still. It’s not the first time he’s posed for Steve, although the taut string of attention between them is new. He keeps his eyes down, almost demure, because seeing Steve watch him so intensely is overwhelming. It’s better with his eyes down. He knows steve’s gaze is on him, and that keeps him anchored. It’s peaceful, and his mind stays quiet even without Steve’s hand in his hair.

Finally, Steve sets the sketchbook aside. “Do you want to see?”

Bucky shivers. See himself bound and vulnerable? He’s not sure he can take that knowledge just yet. “No. Not… Maybe later.”

“You’ve done very well,” Steve says, warm with approval. “Come here.”

Stiff and awkward, Bucky gets to his feet. Steve pats the cushion at his side and Bucky settles onto it. Gently, Steve’s hand guides him down so that his head settles into Steve’s lap. Then Steve’s hand resumes its task of massaging at Bucky’s scalp. He doesn’t bother with the book this time, devoting all of his attention to the massage. When his fingers slip down to work on the tension in Bucky’s neck, Bucky moans, and finds he’s too relaxed to care that Steve heard it. 

“Who knew that someone with such a smart mouth could obey so sweetly?” Steve teases, fingers never pausing.

“Who knew you were so damn good with your hands?” Bucky says, too content to sass him properly.

“I should draw you as Saint Sebastian.”

“Enlighten those of us who didn’t pay attention in Sunday school.”

“He was a martyr shot to death by Roman arrows. But he’s even more important in art history. The Italians especially loved to paint him as an ethereal young man, usually naked and bound to a tree. You’d be perfect.”

“Did you just call me ethereal?”

Steve’s fingers traced over Bucky’s lips, as though he was memorizing the shape of them. “Yes.”

~

The peacefulness in his mind and body gets him through the workday, but by the time he’s climbing the stairs to their apartment he’s starting to feel jittery with energy. It’s Friday night and he doesn’t want another peaceful evening. He wants more. He wants to push Steve up against a wall and kiss him breathless. But that’s not going to happen, so he’d better take advantage of his permission to go out on weekend nights. Somewhere out there in the dark he’ll find a woman who will help him let off some tension. 

_Or maybe a man_ , his mind offers treacherously. Bucky freezes, hand on the doorknob. He knows where to go, if he wants that. Their neighborhood is popular with fairies and packed with their favored dives. Need is burning a hole in his gut, and he decides: if Steve won’t go out with him, Bucky’s going to a sissy bar.

Steve greets him with a smile like the sun, and Bucky immediately feels the familiar wash of guilt. He hates himself, because the past nights have been so wonderful and he desperately wants them to continue. But he needs more.

“Hey,” he says, with his practiced cockiness.

Confusion flickers over Steve’s face at the tone, so different from how Bucky greeted him yesterday. “I got us a roast,” Steve says, proud and eager to please.

“Yeah? That’s real swell, Stevie.”

They move to the kitchen and eat. Bucky can feel their relationship shifting and grinding, trying to reshape to accommodate these new changes. 

“You going out with me tonight?”

Steve’s breath escapes on a sharp exhale. He’s visibly surprised. Probably hoped they were spending another night on the couch. Bucky feels sick with guilt, but he can’t back down.

“Yeah,” Steve decides, steel glinting in his eyes again. “I think I am.”

Bucky licks his lower lip. Somehow, this is going to end with him in trouble. He doesn’t yet know how or why or what kind of trouble, but he’s absolutely certain that going to a club when Steve is already cold with anger is a terrible plan. 

They finish eating in silence, change from work clothes into their nicer evening wear, and head out. Bucky wants to be sure he’ll get sex, so he picks one of the sleazier joints and gets drinks for them both.

Steve isn’t talking, and when Bucky finds a girl and drops her friend off with Steve, he’s even less sociable than usual. 

Pretending he doesn’t care, Bucky spins out onto the floor, dancing close and dirty. He lets himself get lost in the music and the warm curves in his arms for several songs, letting it wash over his brain and drown out the memory of Steve’s fingers on his lips or Steve’s hand tightening in his hair.

When he looks over, he sees the girl’s friend fidgeting awkwardly, and Steve watching them dance with an intense, icy glare. For a second, Bucky doesn’t get it. Usually Steve won’t start getting angry until Bucky’s drunk too much and done something to make an ass of himself. And then it clicks. Steve’s jealous. They could have had another perfect evening with Steve’s fingers in his hair, but instead Bucky’s dragged them here, where he’s publicly necking with some girl. He’s already forgotten her name.

Ice and heat floods through him in waves in response to that glare. Bucky already wants to know what will happen if he pushes his luck. He knows he likes Steve angry, and recent events have given Steve motivation and permission to act on that anger.

Bucky’s hand slides down to cup her ass, pulling her closer, and he tips his head to kiss her. Her eyes close and she moans, because Bucky’s made damn sure he knows how to make girls melt with his kisses. His eyes stay open, looking over her shoulder at Steve, who is growing angrier by the second. 

Wanting that anger to Spill, Bucky squeezes her ass and moves his mouth down to her neck. She writhes against him, and Bucky sees Steve’s fists clench, but it’s still not enough to get him out of his chair.

Single-minded now, Bucky hitches up one side of her skirt, moving his hand up her thigh until his fingers brush the hem of her panties and Steve is up and moving toward him.

“We’re leaving,” Steve says, in the angriest tone Bucky’s ever heard from him.

Steve’s hand clamps down on his arm, pushing his hand down out of the girl’s skirt. The fury in his eyes makes Bucky’s knees weak. 

“Sorry, doll,” Bucky apologizes, shooting her a charming grin. She’s flushed and dazed with pleasure, but she’ll be all right. He tips his hat to her and then lets Steve herd him out the door.

It’s still early. Bucky’s never left a club so soon. But there’s no way he’s defying Steve on the topic. Not when he’s like this, and especially not after the trouble Bucky went through to get him this angry.

Steve frog-marches him half the way home before wheeling on him. “What the hell were you doing?”

“Riling your temper, seems like,” Bucky says, though it makes his heart pound to sass Steve when he’s this angry.

“You succeeded,” Steve snaps, turning away and starting to walk again. Bucky keeps pace with him. Usually that’s not a problem, with Steve being so much shorter, but he’s _angry_ now, feet eating up the pavement. “You’re not even that drunk. What were you thinking, pawing at a girl in public like that?”

“You gonna punish me for it?”

Steve stops so fast that Bucky’s two steps past him before he manages to stop himself and turn back. Eyes wide in shock, Steve stares at him. “Is that what this is about? You damn well deserve it.”

It takes everything in him not to back down in the face of Steve’s wrath, but Bucky cocks his chin up, looking down at him. “Yeah? What are you gonna do?”

Nostrils flaring as he takes a breath, Steve’s anger settles down a notch as he puts it back under control and levels a gaze at Bucky that offers no chance of quarter. “March, Barnes.”

Bucky’s cowed out of his mind, but the thrill of anticipation that shoots through him is sweet. He starts walking again, feeling the anger still vibrating off of Steve as they walk together back to the apartment.

Steve follows him up the stairs, his presence like a wall at Bucky’s back. Bucky may have asked for this, but that doesn’t mean he has any idea what he’s getting into. When they step through the door, he hears the click of the lock behind him, and then Steve’s voice low and commanding. “Undress completely.”

 _Christ._ Steve wants him vulnerable. That’s only fair. Not daring to leave the room, Bucky starts to undress while Steve makes sure all the curtains are securely drawn. He leaves his clothes in a neatly folded pile, because he knows it’s what’s expected of him, and stands at attention until Steve has returned to stand in front of him.

“Bend over the arm of the couch,” Steve orders, his eyes unwavering on Bucky’s face. 

Taking a breath to steady himself, Bucky walks to the couch and bends over the arm of it, bracing himself on his elbows with his ass up in the air.

He hears Steve’s belt unbuckle, and closes his eyes as he understands what’s about to happen.

“As always, if you want to stop, all you have to do is tell me,” Steve informs him. He walks over to stand behind Bucky, and runs a light hand over his bare ass. “Do I have your permission?”

Bucky takes a breath, lets it out. “Yes.”

The hand pulls away, and Bucky hears Steve take a step back, steadying himself and then bringing the belt down sharply across Bucky’s ass.

It _stings_ , and Bucky can’t help the surprised little squeak that escapes his throat. Steve pauses, and it’s a waiting silence. He’s not afraid that he’s hurt Bucky—he’s confirming that he has permission to continue.

“I’m good,” Bucky says, and the belt snaps down across his skin again.

“You’re really not,” Steve says, voice heavy with anger and emotion. He’s got a hell of an arm, for such a scrawny little thing, and he lays stripe after stripe across Bucky’s ass and thighs, showing absolutely no mercy. 

Bucky tries to stay quiet, really he does, but each strike lights up all of his nerves. He feels absolutely vulnerable, completely at Steve’s mercy, and as much as it _hurts_ , he knows that he’s safe here. Steve won’t damage him, and that makes this a space where it’s okay to be vulnerable. Each strikes wrings a gasp or a whimper from him, and his body winces, bracing himself for each strike. 

After about ten strikes, Steve pauses. Bucky can hear him panting, and he stays braced, knowing that it’s not over yet. When the next strike comes, it’s slow and fully _meant_ , different from the initial flurry of blows.

“Do you have any idea what you looked like, kissing her?” Steve asks. 

An answer is not expected of him. The sharp slap of the next blow takes its place.

“Like the devil had put on the handsomest face in Brooklyn,” Steve said. Another strike, stern and deliberate. “So gorgeous, and so wicked.”

That strike is the first one that makes Bucky cry out. The sound escapes his throat, raw and bright, dissolving into a few soft whimpers.

“Are you even the slightest bit repentant?”

There’s a pause. Bucky tries to remember how to talk.

“Answer that.”

His ass and thighs are alight with blinding pain, and Bucky’s harder than he’s ever been in his life. He’s pretty sure he’s light-headed just from the amount of blood filling his thighs and cock. “No,” he confesses, and immediately yelps when the next blow hits.

“But that isn’t why you deserve this,” Steve says, his voice velvety with threat and command.

Another hit, right on top of the first one. Bucky grabs one of the throw pillows on the couch and muffles himself with it, so that his cries come out as whimpers and not as howls.

“Do you know why you deserve this?”

The pain is all-consuming. Steve’s words are the only thing that cuts through it, the only thing that exists. 

“Don’t answer.”

As if he could. Another strike, one between each sentence.

“You’re getting punished because you’re _mine_.”

Again. There are hot tears streaking down Bucky’s cheeks. He’s a mess of emotion and sensation, absolutely at Steve’s mercy.

“And because you intentionally went out of your way to incense me.”

The pillow catches his cry at the next blow, which feels like the hardest one yet. There’s a pause after it. Bucky sobs for breath, burying his face in the pillow.

“You asked me for this,” Steve says, returning to the steady, deliberate strikes. “And I’m going to give it to you.”

Blind with sensation, Bucky feels his hips squirming against the arm of the couch, rutting against it even while he’s trying to dodge those sharp blows.

“I’m always going to take care of you, Buck,” Steve promises, his voice unwavering. “Whatever you need.”

The belt swings down again, and again, until Bucky’s lost all capacity to do anything but whimper and shudder in response.

Finally, he hears the belt hit the floor, and a tentative, cold hand rests against the blazing skin of his ass. 

“Buck?” Steve’s voice is quiet now, back to being that shy, nervous kid that Bucky’s always been watching out for.

He can’t manage words. Bucky whines once at him. 

Whatever Steve hears in the whine, it earns a breathy little laugh. “Okay.”

Patting Bucky’s ass again, very gently, Steve sinks down to sit near his head on the couch. “Come here.” 

Bucky lifts his head warily, knowing that he must be a tear-stained disaster. Steve just smiles warmly at him, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. 

“Come here,” he repeats.

Pushing the soggy pillow aside, Bucky shifts up off the arm of the couch. Very gingerly, he curls up next to Steve on the couch, wincing at the texture of the fabric against his sensitive skin.

Steve drops an arm around him, pulling him close. Taking a shuddery breath, Bucky relaxes into it, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and hiding his face against Steve’s neck.

“You’re okay, Buck,” Steve murmurs, gently rubbing his hand over Bucky’s back. 

Incapable of words, Bucky fists a hand into the front of his shirt.

“I’ve got you,” Steve promises. 

A warm hand curls around Bucky’s still-hard cock, and it makes him gasp with surprise. Steve’s grip is warm and firm, stroking him with smooth, confident movements. 

Hugging his arms tight around Steve’s back, Bucky holds on tight, not stifling any of the little mews and whimpers he makes as Steve strokes him.

It doesn’t take long, as hard and needy as he is from the belting. Bucky chokes out a cry as he comes, and Steve strokes him through it, kissing Bucky’s hair once he’s finished. 

“I’m going to get up and get a wet cloth,” Steve says, rubbing at Bucky’s back to reassure him. “I’ll be right back. Stay right here. Eyes closed.”

Bucky obeys, resting his head against the back of the couch with eyes closed while Steve fetches a cloth and comes back to clean him up. 

When he’s done, Steve kisses Bucky’s forehead again, clasping a warm hand on his shoulder. “Can we move you to bed?”

Bucky whines, unhappy at the prospect of being physically separated from Steve.

“My bed?” Steve proposes as an alternative. It makes Bucky’s head lift, surprised at the offer, and he nods.

Steve helps him up, supporting him as they move to Steve’s bedroom and get Bucky settled under the covers. Stripping down to undershirt and boxers, Steve climbs in with him.

Bucky’s arms latch instantly around Steve’s waist, hugging him close. He feels vulnerable and needy, and doesn’t want to let go. But, at least for the night, he doesn’t have to. Steve nestles against him, kissing Bucky’s throat once, and then they sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When Bucky wakes up, Steve’s still fast asleep. They’re face to face, tangled up in each other, and it feels warm and perfect. He doesn’t dare move.

Steve looks so gentle and innocent in sleep. It’s incredible to think that this is the same man who lashed his backside into one solid bruise last night. Bucky still feels vulnerable, and he’s not sure what to expect in the aftermath of last night. They crossed a line—several of them, really—and there’s no going back. Bucky remains terrified that their relationship can’t handle these new developments.

Steve shifts in his sleep, one thigh pressing up against Bucky’s very hard and very naked cock, and Bucky yelps, pulling back so fast that he nearly knocks Steve out of the bed. Gasping awake, Steve’s eyes lock on him with concern. “What? Buck? You okay?”

“Yeah, um.” Bucky pulls a corner of the sheet to cover his erection, so it’s not quite so bare and exposed between them. “Sorry.”

The gesture is obvious enough for Steve to make sense of the context, and he smiles wryly. “You don’t have to be shy.”

“I’m naked in your bed.”

“I’ve seen you naked. After last night, I’ve seen a lot more of you than something as ordinary as morning wood.”

Bucky tries a smile. He doesn’t have words to respond. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like some little punk with one hell of an arm gave me the lashing of my life,” Bucky grumbles, smile turning genuine.

“You absolutely deserved it.” Steve reaches out and brushes back a strand of Bucky’s hair. “Do you want to talk about what we’ve been doing?”

Bucky’s heart clenches with dread. He doesn’t want to stop what they’re doing, but he can’t deal with this head-on. “No. Please, no.”

“Okay.” Steve gives him a reassuring smile, as if ‘no’ is just as valid and acceptable an answer as any other. “I’m going to go make pancakes. Why don’t you shower and then come join me?”

Steve and his encouraging smile disappear off to the kitchen. Feeling cold without him even for a moment, Bucky slides out of bed. He’s light-headed with embarrassment over what just happened, but Steve was so calm about it. It’s hard to decide if that’s reassuring or annoying.

Pushing it to the back of his mind, Bucky goes to shower.

There’s a plate waiting for him when he gets out, and coffee. Bucky accepts both gratefully, watching Steve as he makes more pancakes for himself. He has no idea what this is—what they are. Steve whipped him with his belt and then gave him a handjob. _What the hell do you call something like that?_

Queer was one thing. He could deal with queer. But this was uncategorizable.

“What do you want to do today?” Steve asks. “I don’t have plans.”

Bucky thinks about it. _Kiss you_. “Want to go to Coney Island?”

Steve lights up, and then almost immediately stifles it and tries to look mature. “We can’t afford that.”

“Yes, we can. I haven’t been going out this week. I’ll promise you right now that I won’t drink again until we’ve made rent, if you’ll go with me to Coney Island.”

Steve’s grin is absolutely worth it. Bucky’s a rogue and a devil more often than not, but he’s a stickler for promises. He won’t be drinking for the next week. He just hopes to god he doesn’t feel the need.

~

On the ride out, Bucky drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulders. He’s always claimed it’s just because Steve’s at the right height for it, but the truth is he’s possessive, protective, and he likes being in physical contact with Steve. Especially now. 

Steve tolerates it quietly, even letting Bucky steer him through the park. Bucky chooses all the rides, and Steve keeps quiet and lets him. Right up until they get into the line for the Cyclone. “Oh, god, Bucky, no. I got dizzy on the carousel.”

“You’ll be fine. You meet the minimum height requirement. Barely.”

“By eight inches!” Steve corrects indignantly. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“If you’re scared, you can just say so,” Bucky says, knowing that’ll end it.

Steve bristles like a ruffled cat. “I am not scared.”

“No, it’s fine, we can go on the ferris wheel if you’d rather,” Bucky offers, pretending like he’s going to get out of line.

Steve gives him a glare that could freeze molten iron. “No, now we have to go.”

Bucky shrugs and stays, locking down his jaw so he won’t grin.

Angry, Steve looks away, but he doesn’t shrug Bucky’s arm off his shoulders. They’re okay.

“I cannot believe you said that, you incredible jerk,” Steve grouses.

Biting his lip as he tries to fight the persistent grin, Bucky wonders if Steve will press up against him like a girl when they’re on the roller coaster or if he’ll act tough and keep space between them.

It’s the latter.

When they get off, Bucky holds Steve’s shoulders while he wobbles toward the grass and pukes his guts out. He’s glad Steve hadn’t yet had any of the trashy carnival food, so there’s less to puke up. After Steve’s stomach is empty, Bucky gets him some water and sits by him in the shade until Steve’s color starts to return.

“Have I mentioned already that you’re an unbelievable jerk?”

“Five times in the last hour,” Bucky says, grinning shamelessly now. It had been completely worth it.

They wander the park for a bit and end up in the mirror maze, where Steve gets his revenge. Twice he gets Bucky to walk into a glass panel by pulling a cherubic “Oh, there you are, Buck.” After which Steve leans back against a mirror and laughs uproariously while Bucky curses at him from the other side of the glass and tries to find a way around to throttle him.

The second time this happens, a little boy turns the corner and stares at them, eyes wide at Bucky’s cursing. Bucky falls silent and goes red, while Steve laughs so hard he has a fit of hiccups and ends up sinking to the floor to giggle it out. 

“Don’t repeat any of that,” Bucky tells the kid, ducking around him and trying to figure out the way around. He gets it this time, and Steve has to scramble up and bolt away before Bucky can grab him. Lucky for Steve, he’s better at telling glass from air, and Steve disappears back into the maze while Bucky’s still walking into things.

When Steve appears for a third time from around a mirror and calls his name, Bucky just freezes. And then Steve walks straight up to him with a huge grin and Bucky wants to throttle him again because that time it _wasn’t_ a trap.

They end the day on the ferris wheel, as the lights are going on in Manhattan. 

Steve’s lazy and comfortable, watching the world drop away beneath them. He’s never gotten vertigo, which is a surprise considering that he gets everything else. “Been a long time since we’ve had a day like this.”

“My fault.”

Steve glances over. “You ever gonna tell me what it is you’re running from?”

Bucky drops his eyes, feeling his stomach turn. He’s the one who’s afraid of heights, to be honest. He just hides it well. Even Steve doesn’t know.

“If it’s—“ Steve bites his lip, unsure, then forges forward. “If it’s what we’ve been doing, I’m sure—I mean… there are plenty of bossy girls in the world, I’m sure one of them would love to—“

“Jesus, Steve, stop talking,” Bucky says. He doesn’t think their quiet conversation is audible from the other carriages, but either way he doesn’t want Steve to finish that sentence.

He hates the idea of sharing this with anyone but Steve. It’s safer if Steve thinks he’s right, and that there’s nothing else bothering him. Even if it means Steve thinks he’s just a stopgap measure until Bucky finds someone else to give him what he needs.

~

Steve falls asleep on his shoulder on the ride home, which Bucky thinks is fair. 

It’s late when they get back, but Steve’s grinning. “Take off your shirt and sit in the kitchen.”

That makes Bucky grin.

He obeys, taking a seat at the table. Steve comes in with a couple of neckties and uses them to tie Bucky to the chair. “Okay?”

“More than okay.”

Steve pats his shoulder and puts a pot of water on the stove. While they wait for the water to boil and then for the pasta to cook, Steve stands behind him and massages at his shoulders. It feels amazing. Bucky drops his head forward, unashamed of the content moans he’s making while Steve digs those fingers into the knots of his muscles. 

Bucky expects he’ll be untied when the plate of food is placed in front of him, but that’s not what happens. 

“Scoot back a little,” Steve says. Bucky shoots him a confused look, but he pushes back from the table.

Steve drops into his lap.

Shocked, Bucky’s mouth falls open. He’s at least grateful that Steve is sitting chastely across his thighs, because now Bucky’s cock is hard and only an inch from Steve’s hip. 

Apparently oblivious, Steve picks up the plate and holds out a bite. “Okay?”

Bucky has no words. He takes the bite.

Steve feeds them both from the same plate, and refills it when it’s empty. It’s strange, the sense of trust and contentment to handing over so much control to Steve as to be fed like this, and Bucky’s as much turned on by it as he is by Steve in his lap.

After he puts the dishes in the sink, Steve comes over. “Hey, do you want to—“

Except that then he lands in Bucky’s lap, right on top of his cock, and Bucky inhales sharply. Steve goes red, eyes wide. “Christ. I probably should have been expecting that.”

Gingerly, he gets back up, and Bucky winces guiltily.

“Hey,” Steve says, lifting Bucky’s chin to meet his eyes. “It’s okay for you to get hard from being tied up. And I’d like to take care of that for you now. May I?”

Mouth dry, Bucky nods. He’s expecting another handjob, but then Steve drops to his knees and pushes Bucky’s thighs apart.

 _He can’t intend—_ Bucky thinks, and bites his lips on a whimper when Steve looks up at him through those long lashes. 

Efficient, Steve opens his fly and pulls him out, not hesitating before he leans forward and presses a kiss to the side of Bucky’s cock.

Bucky goes tense, pushing the chair back an inch. “Fuck, Steve, you can’t—“

Steve sits back on his heels. “You’re not comfortable with this?”

He’s more than comfortable with this. He’s fantasized about it plenty, although more often it’s his lips around Steve’s cock. That way he feels less guilty about imagining Steve involved in such a deviant act. “It’s degrading.”

Steve’s brows pull together. Bucky sees hurt, confusion and anger in his eyes. “No. It’s not. If you don’t want it, I won’t do it, but don’t try to tell me that I don’t want it. Please, may I?”

Bucky stares at him, aching with need. He’s completely pinioned by that intense, heartfelt gaze. He wants so badly, and he doesn’t understand why Steve would offer. It feels so wrong dragging him into Bucky’s deviant desires when Steve’s just trying to be a good friend.

“No,” he says at last. “I can’t… let you do that.”

Steve’s hands drop into his lap, but he doesn’t get up. He looks angry. “Because you think it’s degrading.”

Great, now they’re fighting.

“If we’re going to argue, you should at least untie me.”

“I didn’t want to fight,” Steve snaps, moving to release Bucky’s wrists. “I wanted to suck you.”

“Don’t _say_ that.”

“ _It is not degrading._ ”

Bucky gets up and tucks himself back into his pants, trying to banish the image of Steve on his knees and willing. “Either way, I’m not letting you do it.”

Steve follows him into the living room, getting in front of him and glaring. “Why the hell not?”

“You’re not a fairy.”

Steve’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. “What if I were?”

Backing up at step at Steve’s suddenly icy anger, Bucky tries to recover. “Don’t. That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Look, you’re not a—“ Bucky stops. It’s not like Steve’s ever shown much interest in girls. “Are you?”

“Maybe. I think I like both.”

The anger dissolves from the room in the wake of that confession. 

Stunned, Bucky sits down on the couch and blinks. “Are you allowed to like both?”

Steve sits down next to him, keeping space between them. “You’re allowed to like both. Is this going to be a problem?”

“Not sure. Do you… are you…?” Bucky can’t put it into words, but Steve knows what he’s asking.

Looking pained and guilty, the last of Steve’s righteous anger fades. “Yeah, Buck.” Steve stares down at his own hands. “I’ve been in love with you for years. And it was very wrong of me to start … doing these things with you without telling you that.”

“Oh.” Bucky leans back against the couch, overwhelmed with shock. He doesn’t know how to process that. 

They sit together in silence for several minutes, staring into space. 

“Doesn’t it drive you nuts?” Bucky asks.

Steve glances over, confused. “Being a fairy, or being in love with you?”

“Yeah.” Bucky breathes out and in slowly. “It drives me nuts.”

“ _What_ drives you nuts?”

“Being in love with you.” 

Steve sits up straight and stares at him. “What?”

“I’ve been…” Bucky winces guiltily. “I’ve been running from how much I want you.”

Gaping at him for almost a minute, at last Steve’s mouth twitches and pulls into a grin. “My god, Buck, you were planning to drink yourself to death rather than tell me you loved me? I didn’t know it was possible to be so stupid, even for you.”

“Shut up and suck my cock, Rogers.”

“Oh, no, you already missed out on that opportunity. Offer’s gone. And I’m exhausted.” Steve reaches for him, twining his fingers through Bucky’s. “Your bed or mine?”

Bucky tilts his head over to smile at him. “Yours.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about four thousand words of porn and my misguided attempts to start adding in more period-accurate slang. Also, This chapter spends some time discussing 1930s attitudes on homosexuality and Steve’s neighborhood in particular. I _highly_ recommend reading through this [amazing post specifically on Steve Rogers’ 1930s/40s neighborhood](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html) and the queer community centered in that area.

Bucky wakes in the morning to the feeling of Steve’s lips on his throat.

He smiles at once and stretches, enjoying the warmth of Steve’s bed and Steve’s body against his own. 

“Morning,” Steve murmurs, catching Bucky’s wrists and pressing them to the mattress above his head.

Thinking that he’d be perfectly happy to wake up like this every day, Bucky shifts from his side onto his back, letting Steve slide over to straddle his lap. “Morning.”

Steve’s hands are warm against his wrists, grip firm and thumbs idly caressing in little circles. “You’re mine,” Steve tells him, as if there’s any doubt about this. 

Bucky smiles his adoring, lopsided smile up at Steve. “I’m yours. Are you going to kiss me or just stare at me?”

“I’m annoyed that I can’t do both simultaneously,” Steve says, lowering his head down so that his nose brushes against Bucky’s.

“Not without being creepy,” Bucky says, rubbing his nose lightly against Steve’s.

“Stop trying to get the last word,” Steve whispers it against his lips. 

“You st—“ 

Steve kisses him.

It’s well worth not getting the last word. Steve’s lips are wet and sweet, and he mashes them against Bucky’s with such blunt enthusiasm that Bucky almost laughs. Kissing lessons are very much in order, and now is as good a time to start as any. 

Sweet and coaxing, Bucky returns the kiss, showing him how to move his lips. Steve mimicks him, learning automatically, and Bucky gives him everything, guiding him through all his best techniques.

Steve pauses to breathe, his breath coming in warm pants against Bucky’s lips.

“You’re a terrible kisser,” Bucky teases.

Grinning at the challenge, Steve shakes his head. “You’re such an inconsiderate boyfriend.”

“Fast learner, though,” Bucky says, lifting his hips so that his body undulates once beneath Steve. “Kiss me again.”

“You’ll hate it,” Steve says, already moaning into Bucky’s mouth as their lips seal back together. This time, Bucky flicks out his tongue to tease at Steve’s lips. They part instantly for him, Steve’s own tongue brushing against Bucky’s and learning the dance by mimicking what Bucky does. Bucky knows he’s going to have—wonderful, blissful—cause to regret it, but he starts teaching Steve all the tricks he likes best when girls used them against him, and quickly moans as Steve masters one of them.

“Still terrible?” Steve asks, making Bucky _whine_ because he’s stopped kissing.

“Awful,” Bucky confirms, drawing his teeth over his lower lip and pouting at Steve until he gets another kiss. This time Steve takes control, possessively exploring Bucky’s mouth and making Bucky moan. He’s kissed pushy girls before, but never like _this_ , and it absolutely turns him on.

His head is spinning when Steve breaks the kiss again. The little punk looks smug.

“May I tie you to the bed?” Steve nips his teeth against Bucky’s lower lip to make it more difficult for him to answer.

“Always.” Bucky keens as Steve bites a little harder. He is maddening. Irresistible. And drawing away, which is a miserable plan. Bucky whines to make this sentiment known.

“Hush,” Steve orders fondly. He gets up and fetches a couple of neckties, using them to tie Bucky’s hands to the bars of the headboard. When he has finished, he sits back, straddling Bucky’s lap again. “There. Better.”

“I had no idea you had such a fixation for tying me up.”

“Thinking about developing a fixation for gagging you.” Steve hooks his fingers through the hem of Bucky’s boxers, which immediately gets attention. Keeping eye contact, Steve slowly draws them down, and Bucky lifts his hips to help him. 

The way Steve is looking at him sends a wave of shivers through his skin, and Bucky blushes and tucks his head an inch, shy under the force of that blatant desire. 

“Not fair only one of us is naked,” Bucky says, trying to remain cheeky. Emotional vulnerability is harder than physical vulnerability, and he wants to dodge away from it and hide in the comfortable, familiar ease of their banter.

“Is that a request?” Steve’s head descends, pink lips surrounding a nipple and sucking hard on it. 

Bucky cries out and arches, cock giving an interested twitch as his wrists strain against the ties. “Yes,” he gasps out. “Please.”

Steve stills at the _please_. He’s always had a hard time refusing Bucky anything, and _please_ has always been one of the best weapons in Bucky’s arsenal when it comes to getting his way with Steve Rogers. 

Of course, they both know that goes both ways.

“Okay,” Steve says, smiling down at him as he pulls off his undershirt, and then gets up to strip out of his underpants. Bucky strains to get the best view. He’s seen Steve naked before, plenty of times, but never when he’s erect like this. His whole body is slender and sharp, bones straining against the skin, and even while Bucky worries for his health he still thinks Steve is breathtaking. 

“I want you,” Bucky says, because he does. He wants Steve above him and beneath him, tangled in his arms, breathless, shameless, laughing. He wants Steve night and day, and it aches a hole in his chest because Bucky’s pretty sure that he’s nothing but muscles, skin, and _want_ for Steve Rogers. It feels good to be able to say it.

“That’s nice,” Steve replies, and the cheekiness in his voice makes Bucky drop his head back and roll his eyes up because—

“You’re such a punk.”

Steve settles back onto Bucky’s thighs, running cool, fragile hands over Bucky’s chest. “Do you want me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad.” Steve’s got that wicked look on his face, the one he gets when he’s got a brilliant prank in mind or he’s set out to sass Bucky into next week. “You don’t get what you want, not today. I haven’t forgiven you yet. Today, I get what I want.”

His hand glides down, curling around Bucky’s erection and slowly beginning to stroke it, eyes intent on Bucky’s face. It makes Bucky’s breath catch, both from the sensation and from the memory of what Steve had in mind last time he’d said _I want_.

“Yes, Captain,” Bucky says, ready to give Steve anything and everything that he asks for. 

The nickname makes Steve grin, and he keeps watching Bucky’s eyes as he strokes. “You’re beautiful like this, Buck. All tied up and wanting. I should draw you.”

Bucky whines pleadingly, because in the mood Steve’s in right now, the slightest rebellion from Bucky could be enough to stop the touching and send Steve off for his sketchbook. He absolutely knows that this new development in their relationship is only going to increase the amount that Steve loves seeing him squirm. It’s far too easy to imagine Steve sitting across the room with a sketchbook, keeping Bucky hard and needy with only a few well-chosen words. Bucky’s willing to be obedient if it will keep Steve on his thighs instead.

His stroking doesn’t continue very long before Steve slides further down, pushing Bucky’s thighs apart and settling between them. 

“Steve,” Bucky breathes, feeling his own cheeks heat with embarrassment and nerves.

“I swear to god, Bucky, if you start trying to tell me this is degrading again, I will flip you over and grab my belt.” 

Bucky makes an aroused little sound at that, but he keeps his mouth shut because he doesn’t want Steve to stop. It’s hard to believe him, when all his life Bucky’s listened to filthy jokes about queenies and cocksucking. Seems like there’s no more hated group in New York than the queers, and no filthier act than to put your mouth on a man’s cock.

But when Steve leans his head down and licks his way up the underside, Bucky arches almost fully off the bed with pleasure and drops back onto the mattress with a moan. He’s had girls do this for them before, but none of them went at it like Steve does. 

Kissing his way up the side, Steve laves his tongue over the head once, slowly, and then kisses back down the other side. He goes about cocksucking with single-minded determination, lips latching onto the side of Bucky’s cock and sucking hard at the skin.

Bucky _yelps_ at that, head spinning, and then Steve’s back to licking a moment later, mapping the length of Bucky’s cock with broad strokes of his tongue. “God, Steve, please,” he begs, biting his own lip as he looks down and sees that gorgeous, wicked face looking up at him through long lashes and lips descending around the head of his cock. “ _Steve_.”

Steve’s only response is to lower his head until Bucky’s cock nudges the back of his throat, and then to pull up slowly, hollowing his cheeks. Bucky makes an inhuman sound of need, eyelashes falling shut.

“Mm,” Steve says, pressing a soft little kiss to the head of Bucky’s cock that makes him twitch, and then sliding down again. Bucky feels that mouth envelop his length, taking him in until Bucky’s cock is nestled intimately against the back of Steve’s throat, and then he pushes farther.

Cutting off a yell because he still has enough sense of mind to realize that their walls are thin and they don’t want neighbors banging down their doors at a time like this, Bucky breathes in little gasps. Impossibly, Steve’s nose brushes the wiry hairs at the base of Bucky’s cock.

 _How—_.

He lifts off again, and Steve has to turn his head aside, coughing a couple of times. It instantly turns Bucky’s lust to worry. “ _Steve_.” 

Steve gives him an irreverent little grin. “That’s a little tricker than I expected.”

Bucky groans at him.

The only response he gets is Steve sliding his head back down, swallowing Bucky to the hilt and then lifting off again, facing this task with conviction. It drives any coherent question straight out of Bucky’s head as Steve goes about mastering his new skill and reducing Bucky to jelly in the process.

“Steve,” he begs, half-sobbing with the overwhelming sensations of pleasure. “Steve, pull back, you gotta—I’m gonna—“

Steve pulls back just to the head, replies, “mm,” and dives straight back down. Bucky bites down on a howl, which turns it into an unfairly high-pitched whimper, trying not to come because he doesn’t want Steve to choke on it. 

But of course Steve is as determined as ever to do things his own way and his hand curls around Bucky’s balls, thumb rubbing soft little circles in order to coax him to come.

He does, clamping his mouth shut so that nothing escapes but a string of little huffs and whimpers, and Steve catches it on his tongue, licking up every stray drop and swallowing it possessively.

Only then does he wiggle up to sit beside Bucky, kissing his forehead and trailing gentle fingers over Bucky’s chest as he recovers. 

“ _How_ ,” Bucky says, panting.

“I asked questions from the right people,” Steve says, as if it was something as innocent as asking instructions for baking a cake. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says. “Wow.”

“Can I take that as a sign that you won’t argue so hard next time I want to do that?” Steve asked.

“I’m gonna need lessons.”

The way Steve lights up at that line is its own reward. Bucky grins back at him, sappy with affection.

Steve spends a few minutes playing with Bucky’s hair while Bucky recovers, and then kisses him and gets up from the bed. Bucky whines softly in question. 

“I’m going to go shower,” Steve says, fingertips lingering on Bucky’s chest. “You’re going to lay right here, and think about me in the shower. Naked and touching myself. Because when I come back, you’re going to be hard for me again. Understand?”

Bucky’s mouth goes dry and he opens and shuts it a couple of times in an effort to find a response. “Yes, Captain,” he manages.

He doesn’t understand why he has to stay, why he can’t come along and touch and watch and kiss, but Bucky’s willing to follow his Steve to hell and back. If Steve says that he’s going to stay, he stays.

The bed is damp from his sweat, and they’re going to have to change the sheets. It’s uncomfortable, especially with Bucky’s hands still bound above his head, but that only makes Bucky squirm with want. He knows there’s another round coming. If he’s good, he’ll get to find out what Steve has in mind.

He can hear the water running, and he licks his lips at the thought of Steve stepping into it, roaming hands over his slender body. Bucky wants his own hands on that body, wants Steve so much it burns, and he arches and whines against the restraints that are keeping him here. He has to be good. Steve will be back soon, and if he’s been good he’ll be rewarded. If he’s hard again.

That’s not difficult at all. Bucky’s refractory period is short, and he has plenty of incentive to keep his thoughts wandering along filthy paths. He wonders if Steve will let him join in showers later, and thinks about the way Steve must look with water dripping from his hair and lashes. 

When Steve re-emerges, drying himself off, Bucky’s achingly hard and whimpering. Steve looks him over and grins wide, bending down to give Bucky a quick, messy kiss. 

“Please,” Bucky says when he pulls away, although he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.

“Yes,” Steve replies, although he’s still walking away. “I’ll be right back.”

 _What?_ Bucky bites down on the urge to call out after him, because he doesn’t want Steve to be right back, he wants Steve _here_. He was patient through the shower, and now it’s just unfair of Steve to pull away again.

But he’s only gone for a few seconds, and Bucky relaxes, hopeful that Steve’s going to touch him again. He’s got the bottle of cooking oil from the kitchen, and he swings a leg over to straddle Bucky’s waist.

“Steve?”

Steve kisses him, warm and reassuring, lingering on Bucky’s lips. He rolls his hips back so that they nudge lightly against Bucky’s cock, more teasing than anything. 

Smile wide and wicked, Steve breaks the kiss to watch Bucky’s eyes. “I want to have you inside me. Is that okay?”

“What?” Bucky’s brow crumples, not sure what Steve’s asking or offering.

“Your cock. In my ass. It’ll feel good.” 

Bucky goes red. “You mean _sodomy_.”

Steve kisses him again, sweet and innocent. “Uh-huh.”

Trying to process that, head spinning, Bucky makes himself nod. He knows that he’ll probably be in trouble if he makes any kind of objection on the topic of it being unnatural, degrading, or disgusting. Because even though just about everything Bucky’s ever heard on the topic says that it is, Steve disagrees, and Bucky has always trusted Steve’s judgement over anyone’s.

His memory flashes back to the day he was walking past an alley in their neighborhood and he saw two guys fucking. They were both dressed like sailors, and the bigger of the two of them had the smaller pinned face-first up against the wall, thrusting into him with rough, wet thrusts. Bucky had stopped short, staring, at the way that the bigger guy had his hand clapped over his partner’s mouth to stifle the whimpers and gasps coming out of him. His first instinct was that he needed to stop this—not because of the act itself, but because the little guy sounded like he was in pain.

But then the little sailor’s eyes flicked over to him, locking on Bucky’s, and his gaze was dark and hot with lust. 

Bucky bolted.

He saw the two of them every time he closed his eyes for weeks. Every time he laid in bed and took himself in hand to get off, it was that scene in the alley he saw. But as it replayed and replayed in his mind, he couldn’t see their faces anymore. Or, rather, it wasn’t their faces he saw. It was Steve’s face and his own, and that dark look of lust was in Steve’s eyes as Bucky pinned him up against an alley wall and thrust into him.

“Okay,” he agrees, because Steve likes having clear consent. “Yes. You know what you’re doing?”

“I told you. I asked questions.” 

Bucky takes a deep breath, praying for patience. “How many people in this neighborhood know that you have a thorough interest in sodomy?”

“Two or three,” Steve says, opening the bottle of oil and pouring some of it into his hand. “All of whom offered to give me hands-on demonstrations.”

Jealousy spikes through him and Bucky pulls hard at the restraints. “Steve!”

Steve laughs, leaning forward to kiss him again. “Jealous, Buck? Relax. No one’s ever touched me like that but you. No one ever will.”

“You should let me touch you,” Bucky says, tugging again at the ties. 

“No. I’m still annoyed at you. You don’t get to touch.” Licking his tongue shamelessly over Bucky’s lips, Steve pulls away and shows Bucky his fingers, coated now with oil, before he reaches that hand around behind himself. 

Bucky can’t see very well at all from this angle, but he hears the gasp Steve makes as he pushes one—or more?—of those fingers inside himself. “Steve,” Bucky breathes out the name, wanting him almost as much as he’s worried for him. 

“Feels good,” Steve tells him, bracing himself with one hand next to Bucky’s head while the other wiggles inside. “I cleaned myself up in the shower, you know. Soaped myself up inside there. Thought about you. There’s this one spot—it’s called the prostate, I guess—that I can just barely reach if I strain my arm, but from what I was told if I get the right angle I can get your cock against that spot. And it’s gonna feel amazing.” 

God, what did he do to deserve this breathtaking, wicked little devil? Everyone thinks that Bucky’s the troublemaker and Steve’s a saint, but really it’s Steve who always gets them into trouble and Bucky who would follow him to hell and back. 

“Are you for real?” Bucky grumbles at him, his hips straining uselessly upwards toward those warm thighs bracketing his waist. Now he wonders about what it would feel if he put his own fingers up inside himself, and regrets that—unlike Steve—he never had the sense to try it while he was in the shower. 

Steve’s wrist bumps against Bucky’s cock as he moves it inside himself, and it makes Bucky shudder and grind up against him, dazed by the knowledge of those skilled fingers moving up inside Steve. 

And then he thinks of having _Steve’s_ fingers inside him, and a wash of pure heat goes through his body. He wonders if Steve would, if he wants that, if Bucky can beg him to try. 

He adds more oil liberally, taking his time with this while Bucky fidgets beneath him, and at last those slick fingers clasp around his cock. “Are you ready?”

“Am _I_ ready?” Bucky repeats. “You won’t—it won’t hurt you, will it?”

“It won’t hurt me,” Steve promises. “I’ll be careful.” 

Bucky nods his okay, and Steve grins at him, lining himself up and pressing down.

The feeling of his cock breaching Steve’s tight body makes him groan, and the look of surprise and arousal on Steve’s face is even better. Steve holds his gaze, steady and reassuring as he slides down and lifts up again, slowly working his way down until he’s seated completely on Bucky’s cock.

It’s different from being inside of a girl, and it feels phenomenal. Bucky wants to thrust up into him, but he won’t move without permission. Not at the risk of hurting Steve. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine, you dope.” Steve leans forward, kissing him warmly for a few seconds before sitting back up and starting to slowly ride the length of him. “It doesn’t hurt. There’s a bit of a stretch—okay, more than a bit—but it feels… god, it feels so good, Buck. You feel good. You’re so big and hard and hot up inside me.” 

Bucky bites his lip hard to keep from moving his hips. The sight of Steve riding him and looking down with those incredible blue eyes, dark with arousal, is almost overwhelming.

“You okay?” Steve asks, although he doesn’t stop the slow, mindblowing movements of his hips. His hand moves from where it’s been braced near Bucky’s head, sliding into his hair and tightening there.

Bucky responds with a little whimper of pleasure, arching his neck into the touch. “More than okay,” he vows, pulling his eyes open again so that he can watch every expression on Steve’s face. “In love. Having the best sex of my life.”

Steve laughs at that, a happy, warm sound. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“Shut up, you have no basis for comparison.”

This time, Steve’s laugh is stronger, and his hips still while he drops his head down and laughs helplessly. “I don’t need any basis for comparison. You dumb schlepper.”

“Scrub.”

Steve’s hips start moving again, a little faster now. “Twit.”

“Queerie.” 

“Oh, you didn’t,” Steve groans at him, breath coming quicker now as he fucks himself on Bucky’s cock. “Trying to earn yourself more punishment?”

“Always,” Bucky rolls his hips up freely now, loving the way that it makes Steve’s lashes flutter with pleasure as they move in unison. “Would you do that for me, Captain? Whip my ass and then fuck me?”

Steve’s mouth falls open, eyes wide with impressed desire. “Oh, so you _can_ actually ask for what you want.” He grins, shaking his head. “Course I will, Buck. Next time I lash your rump until it’s red and hot, I’m gonna finger you open and then fuck you so hard, slamming into you ’til you’ve got no words but _yes, Captain, please, Captain_.”

Bucky moans, hips stuttering at that image. “Yes, Captain,” he gasps, thrusting up harder after that. 

Steve whimpers above him, and the look of pleasure on Steve’s face is new, but it’s so incredibly beautiful. “God, Buck,” he shivers, trembling as he gets closer. “Never felt anything so good.” 

“All yours,” Bucky vows, completely enrapt in how Steve looks and feels above him. “Everything that I am is yours.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, eyes falling shut. “You are.”

Steve comes with a stifled little cry, muscles clenching around Bucky’s length, and it’s the most perfect feeling in the whole damn world. Bucky watches him, awed and adoring, as Steve’s face squeezes in with pleasure as the orgasm rockets through him. Fucking him through it, Bucky goes carefully still once Steve is finished and panting above him.

It takes a few seconds for Steve to recover, but once he does his eyes open and he gives Bucky an amused and annoyed look. “Keep going, you dunce.”

“You—“ Bucky starts to argue, but it was an order, so he shuts his mouth and takes what he’s been given. His hips roll up, more carefully this time, and Steve’s breath hitches, but Steve’s eyes lock steadily on Bucky’s, insisting that he continue. There’s no way Bucky can refuse, not when Steve’s looking at him like that. 

When he comes, the whole world goes white with pleasure, and Bucky feels the ties cutting into his wrists as he arches and pulls against them. Above him, Steve swears reverently. Gasping for breath, Bucky drops back into the soggy sheets, looking dazedly up at his partner.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, seeing Steve wince as he pulls off.

“Killer-diller,” Steve sasses, making Bucky dissolve into laughter.

“I hate you so much, you twerp.” 

“Hate you too,” Steve says, kissing him warmly and then untying the restraints from Bucky’s wrists. As soon as he’s free, Bucky hugs him close, nuzzling his face against Steve’s shoulder and grinning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I found some plot.
> 
> I now have plans to continue this story through the war and ... post-Winter Soldier. So, uh, stick around.

The summer of 1939 is the best of Bucky’s life. After that everything begins to slip away.

It begins in September.

On the first, Steve greets him in the evening with this hard look in his eyes. It’s that cold anger he gets when he’s facing down bullies, but it’s different this time. More distant. “Did you see the papers?” 

Bucky’s smile dies on his lips and his affectionate greeting goes stale in his throat. He swallows it down. “I didn’t need to. It’s not like anyone’s talking about anything else.”

It’s not a surprise. They’ve been watching Europe watch Germany for years now, tensions building. Plenty of German immigrants in New York these days, especially Jewish ones. 

“It’s war, Bucky. First Poland, next… I don’t know. But the people who think Germany will stop at Poland are fooling themselves.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, sinking down to sit on the couch. He’s tired. Hungry. He’s heard dozens of opinions on the news all day from a dozen different people, and now he’s home and he’s going to hear it again.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, tone sharp. He’s annoyed at Bucky’s callousness. Disappointed.

Bucky looks over at him, brows pulling together in hurt and confusion that he tries to hide under annoyance of his own. It isn’t that he doesn’t care. He’s not sure it’s possible fore him to care more than he already does. It’s just that he cares for selfish reasons. He thinks that Steve’s right. Germany won’t stop at Poland. Something big has started, and it’s not going to stop. It’s going to change things. Maybe it’ll even stretch its fingers all the way to America. Given the state of the papers, it already has, and Bucky’s terrified that it’s the end of his perfect, happy summer.

“What do you want me to say, Steve? Yeah. It’s serious, and yeah, it’s awful. What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m going to enlist.”

Bucky’s jaw falls open. He’s pretty sure that there’s an earthquake at that moment, even though he’s never felt an earthquake in his life, because the entire world around him feels like it _lurches_. Shutting his mouth, he purses his lips and tilts his head, trying to come up with a response to that. “America’s not involved, Steve.”

“We should be. We will be.”

Bucky doesn’t feel hungry anymore. “Yeah. Well. Let me know when that happens.”

Shoving himself up from the couch, he goes into his room and slams the door like a child.

Enlist. It’s so stupid, so unbelievably stupid. Steve couldn’t possibly get accepted, he’d be 4F on his asthma alone. But the fact that he’s so damn ready to sign right up and ship overseas to _die_ hurts. 

Bucky wants to go back to August. Better, he wants to go back to July. He wants to wake up tomorrow and drag Steve to Coney Island, where they can bury their heads in the sand and pretend that the world isn’t changing and that they can stay like this forever.

~

On the fifth, the United States officially declares neutrality even while nearly every country in Europe starts gearing up for war. 

Steve has a few things to say about that. So does everyone else. 

Bucky doesn’t. He responds with “Yeah, okay,” to every question, and ends conversations with shrugs and smiles. Steve’s not the only one who gets annoyed with him for not caring.

On the seventh, Steve says, “will you come with me?” and Bucky has to pretend he doesn’t know what this is about.

He looks up from the couch with a lazy smile, as if everything is okay, as if they haven’t been sleeping in separate beds for a week and speaking only when necessary. “We going out?”

Steve locks his jaw and glares at him. “We’re going to enlist.”

Bucky’s damn well not planning to try to enlist. They’d actually take him. 

“I’ll walk you there,” Bucky says.

There’s a line. They’re not the only ones with this idea. 

Bucky pretends to look at his watch. “Shall I come back and pick you up in a couple hours?”

Steve’s glare offers no quarter. “Really?”

Either he can be ashamed or he can fight. Bucky wants to fight. “You want me to be honest?”

Steve’s jaw clenches. His eyes are like steel in December. “I would hope you’d always be honest with me.”

“They’re never gonna take you,” Bucky says, bitter and angry.

When Steve swings a punch at him, Bucky barely has to lean back in order to dodge it. 

There was a time Bucky might have taken him up on the fight. When they were kids, they often tangled up in little skirmishes that left them both bruised and dusty. Every time Bucky remembers, there was a moment when they looked at each other--Steve's nose bloody and Bucky's hair sticking up, and both of them started laughing. Those simple arguments were always so easy to resolve.

It feels like an out. They could shove each other back and forth a few times, get dragged apart by the other men standing around them, and maybe the physical conflict would be enough to prevent the emotional conflict.

Steve doesn’t try again. He just stands there at the edge of the line, his fists clenched and shoulders shaking with rage.

Taking a step back, out of line, Bucky salutes him. “Captain.”

Steve’s glare never wavers, so Bucky just turns and walks away.

He comes back in a couple hours, like he promised, and sits on the curb waiting until a familiar skinny figure walks through the doors. There’s dejection in every line of Steve’s body. Back slumped, shoulders down, brows forming a vertex of misery. When he sees Bucky, he stops, and the dejection instantly hardens into rage. 

A moment later and Steve’s moving again, walking past where Bucky’s sitting with quick, angry steps.

Scrambling to his feet, Bucky’s only half up when Steve reaches parallel with him and just says, “ _don’t_.”

It has every ounce of command that Bucky’s ever heard from him, and it cuts the legs out from under him. Bucky’s ass hits the curb again, speechless with pain. 

He sits there for he doesn’t know how long, until one of the young idiots in line gets curious and leans over. “You not signing up or did they just not take you?”

Bucky wheels on him. “ _We are not at war._ ”

“Tell that to Poland, pally.”

Bucky goes out drinking and comes home late. 

Steve’s on the couch, pretending to read a book. He looks Bucky over with that angry and disappointed expression that is becoming all too familiar. “You got drunk.”

Everything hurts. They’re fighting, and there’s not a thing Bucky can say to make this better. Not even if he lies and says the things Steve wants to hear. Steve would hear the lie in his voice, and that would be worse than ever. “Yeah. You going to do something about it?”

There’s a pause, while Steve’s gaze continues to pin him in place. Bucky’s heart flips over with a moment’s hope that Steve will do something about it. That he’ll take a belt to Bucky and after that they’ll be okay. Everything will be normal again. The war in Europe is still far away.

“No,” Steve says, putting down his book and getting up. “I’m not.”

Bucky lies in his bed alone, hungry again. He feels cold, even though the indian summer night is hot and muggy.

~

They don’t speak for a week.

When things finally break, they’re in the kitchen and Steve’s just dropped a plate of food in front of him. Bucky nudges the vegetables with his fork. “You ever going to forgive me, Stevie?”

The silence from the other side of the table lasts so long that Bucky just assumes it’s a ‘no’. He picks at his food, even though it tastes ashy on his tongue. Everything has, ever since Steve took a swing at him.

“There’s nothing I can do, and I _hate_ it.”

Bucky puts his fork down, rests his arms on the table and lets his head hang, listening. Waiting to find out where this is going and what’s expected of him.

“The things the Nazis are doing, Buck. And I don’t think we’re hearing the half of it, not really.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice heavy with sympathy, because he agrees. He hates it. He wants to fight half the world if necessary to stop it. There are people out there across the ocean hurting and dying. And here Bucky is just wishing it would all go away so that Steve would want to kiss him again. “I know. I do.”

This time, Steve’s silence feels lighter. He’s no longer angry specifically at Bucky. He’s angry at the war, at the Nazis and at his own feeble body. 

Steve pushes his plate away with a sigh, and Bucky reaches across the table and pushes it back, lifting his head. “Please eat.”

Startled, Steve blinks at him, and then carefully picks his fork back up and begins to eat.

They land in Steve’s bed that night, and Steve kisses him like he might not get another chance. 

Bucky just relaxes into it, letting Steve have all the control he needs. He understands that Steve needs to feel like he has power over something right now, and Bucky’s the only person in the world who lets him.

His tongue dips again and again into Bucky’s mouth, marking out his claim as if he intends to lay out his war across Bucky’s body. 

“Go shower,” Steve orders, teeth grazing Bucky’s ear. “I want you ready.”

His voice isn’t the same as it was in August. Then, it was all warmth and joy. This version of his Captain is cold and angry. Bucky knows that Steve won’t hurt him, but he doesn’t like that the strain between them hasn’t diminished, it has only shifted.

The usual glib response of _yes, Captain_ , dies on his tongue. Steve tried to punch him last time he used that nickname. Bucky gets up and showers swiftly, getting himself clean with eager efficiency and a low terror in his gut that Steve might change his mind before he gets back.

When he steps out, heart fluttering with nerves, Steve looks up and smiles at him, soft and fond. He reaches out and Bucky takes his hand, letting himself be drawn down into the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, running light fingertips over Bucky’s chest. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I shouldn’t have made you go with me.”

 _I wish I wasn’t such a coward,_ Bucky thinks. _I wish I was the man you think I should be._

He says nothing, and Steve kisses him.

As the kiss breaks, Steve’s head dips down to bite at Bucky’s collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. “Turn over,” he growls, and that tone sounds a little bit more like the Captain he knows.

Bucky rolls over onto knees and elbows, letting his head hang down between his forearms. Steve settles behind him, hands skimming gently over Bucky’s back and thighs. Those hands settle on his ass, parting the cheeks and letting his thumb drift between them, brushing slow circles over the tight knot of muscle at the center. Bucky inhales and drops his eyes shut, focusing on that touch.

And then, warm. Wet. 

He doesn’t understand at first. Steve’s fingers are always cold, especially when he’s just slicked them with oil. 

Then the warm and wet flicks across his entrance the way Steve’s tongue so often does across Bucky’s skin, and he understands.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky hisses at him, even though he would have thought by now that he’d learned better than to argue with Steve as to what sexual acts are and aren’t acceptable.

Steve grunts, just a little bit of playful challenge in it, and that makes Bucky smile. His cheeks hurt. He was starting to think he’d forgotten how to smile.

“You’re impossible,” Bucky grumbles, and then Steve swirls his tongue and the noise that comes out of Bucky’s throat is bright and surprised with pleasure. 

He can’t stop thinking that this is _filthy_ , even though he knows he only just washed himself as thoroughly as he could both inside and out. Steve doesn’t seem to care, his tongue making wet, sloppy noises as it licks and wiggles against him, and Bucky stifles his mouth with his arm to try and contain some of the wanton moans escaping from his throat. The sensation is unbelievable, and although Bucky had learned full well that he was sensitive there, it had never been quite like this.

“I like the sounds you’re making,” Steve tells him, lips brushing up Bucky’s cleft and pressing a kiss to the top of it. 

Bucky whimpers in response, absolutely devastated with pleasure.

“Feels good?” Steve asks, his tongue retracing that path along the cleft. 

It’s both ticklish and erotic, and Bucky squeaks. Steve starts to laugh at the sound, resting his head against Bucky’s hip as he shakes with a couple waves of laughter. “Want more?”

“Yes. Please.”

“That’s my Buck,” Steve praises him, lightly biting one of the globes of his ass and then dipping back between them to lick Bucky open. 

Bucky loves every second of it, although he’s pretty sure nothing in the world will ever compare to the sensation when Steve pushes two fingers inside him and then flickers his tongue between them without the slightest compunction. It reduces Bucky nearly to sobbing with pleasure, and he doesn’t dare move his mouth from where it’s muffled against his arm. 

“More?” Steve asks, voice with the slight rumble that means he wants to fuck Bucky.

Unable to talk, Bucky arches his back and rolls his hips back onto those fingers pressed inside him, making the invitation as clear as he could manage.

“Good boy. You’re beautiful like this. Blissful and eager. And I’m so utterly in love with you. Always have been, Buck. Always will be.”

“Always been yours,” Bucky mumbles back at him, nuzzling his face against his elbow because he can’t nuzzle at Steve. 

“I know.” Steve’s fingers leave him, and then return slick with oil. “And you’re so precious to me. You’re the best person I’ve ever known.”

“You going to keep flattering or you gonna fuck me?”

He earns a laugh and a swat on his ass, but then Steve’s pressing up behind him, cock hard and hot against Bucky’s skin. He likes it better than Steve’s fingers for that reason, even though those fingers are incredibly skilled when they’re wiggling up inside him. 

“Please,” Bucky begs, voice cracking with need.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve promises, nudging forward until Bucky’s muscles open around him and he slides in. It feels amazing, and Bucky spreads his thighs wider, offering as much of himself as he can. Steve slides in without hesitation, holding Bucky’s hips close and leaning over to kiss Bucky’s spine. “Okay?”

“Missed you.” Bucky takes a couple of deep, shuddering breaths as the ache in his heart starts to subside. “Needed you.”

“I know,” Steve says, starting to thrust into him with slow, savoring movements. “I’m not complete without you, Buck.”

 _How long can that last?_ Bucky wonders, and hates himself for wondering.

Steve takes it slow, reducing Bucky to gasps and shivers, and makes him come across the sheets with shaky little arcs and spasms of pleasure. It’s a deep, bone-shaking orgasm, and Bucky can’t talk as he collapses onto the sticky sheets.

Still hard, Steve drops down beside him, reaching out to tug Bucky close.

Brow furrowing, Bucky blinks at him, making an unhappy little noise of confusion that Steve didn’t come inside him like he usually would.

“I’m okay,” Steve tells him, drawing Bucky into a warm, reassuring kiss. 

It doesn’t feel okay, but Bucky accepts Steve’s word and returns the kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of plot this round. Next chapter is going to be about 90% sex.
> 
> Regarding the history in this chapter: it’s established in MCU canon that Bucky and Steve are in an art class when they hear that the US has joined the war. I wrote this on the assumption that meant June 22 1940, when the French surrender changed US public opinion and the first peacetime draft was instituted a few months later. Realized later that it meant Pearl Harbor (Dec 7, 1941), when the US actually officially joined the war. I chose not to rewrite. I apologize for any other screw-ups on war timeline that I’ve made.

Steve doesn’t ask, and that’s the worst part.

They’re in an art class when they hear the news that France has fallen and the US has entered the war. Steve freezes, his grip on the pencil going stiff. Bucky keeps his mouth shut while the class around them explodes into discussion. Lessons are forgotten for the day, and the teacher dismisses class because there’s no way they can continue. 

Steve’s steps are slow and heavy as they walk down the stairs from the classroom. Bucky slides his hands into his pockets and looks up at the clouds—white and fluffy in a pristine blue sky. 

He doesn’t say anything, but Bucky already knows what he’s thinking. Knows where Steve’s going.

This time, he doesn’t ask Bucky to come with him. It’s a relief, but it also hurts.

At least now they’re actually at war.

No one’s talked about anything else for almost a year now, and Bucky’s not sure how, but the conversations seem to redouble now. Everyone’s talking about the war and the war effort. 

He watches Steve’s skinny back as he walks away, and feels guilty that he’s glad they won’t take him. He doesn’t have a chance, even though Bucky knows he’ll try again and again. It’s some comfort knowing that Steve will stay here, home, and safe, no matter how much he wants otherwise.

Now Bucky just has to pray that he won’t be drafted.

Steve comes home miserable and silent. Bucky puts food in front of him and says nothing. 

They eat in silence, and then Steve goes to his room. He shuts the door, leaving Bucky to the dishes and the long, empty shadows in the apartment.

Days pass, and then weeks. Their art class empties out as the guys all sign up and ship out.

Steve tries again and again to enlist. Each time he comes home bitter and silent, and he shuts himself in his room alone.

But he never says it, never asks Bucky to enlist. It’s just the constant, aching silence between them, and the knowledge that it’s weighing on Steve that Bucky won’t go and Steve can’t. 

Bucky loses track of the times he hears the _men are giving their lives over there_ speech when Steve gives it to other people. Steve never gives it to him. Not once.

Steve hasn’t touched him in a month.

At work, Bucky gets a promotion. The economy, which had been so destitute for so long, has bounced back with the war. Unemployment has all but vanished. Anyone who can work can find a job in a factory making trucks and planes for the war. England will buy anything they can build, and the war continues to spill outward, finding new lines of conflict while the body counts go up.

Bucky’s steel is now used to make tanks and bombs, and he wishes that felt like enough. He wishes that hard work on the home front was enough to keep the disappointment out of Steve’s eyes.

_There are good men risking their lives._

_I know, Stevie_ , he wants to say, and doesn’t. _But if I go, I’ll lose you, and I don’t know if I’ll come home._

He has already lost Steve.

The door to Steve’s room stays closed. 

Months pass, and the disappointment in Steve’s eyes settles into a sort of permanent acceptance. It hurts, but not as much as the void between them. Bucky doesn’t know how to cross it. He can’t blame Steve for not wanting him anymore, and Bucky can’t bear to reach out. Disappointment has turned Steve cold, but it’s guilt that turns Bucky cold, and he knows that neither of them is capable of bridging this gap.

So Bucky does what he always does. He pretends that he’s fine, and chases that until he feels like it’s right. Like he was never in love with his best friend. Like he’d never heard Steve tell him _I will always love you._

Steve does. And they do. But it isn’t enough.

~

The news about Pearl Harbor comes while Bucky’s at work. He’s welding parts for a tank, letting himself focus on the steel like it’s the only thing that matters. 

Shorty Marsters comes out of the office yelling and waving his arms, and they shut down the machines and turn up the radio as the men gather around. It’s an attack on American soil, and it means that the U.S. Will have to enter the war in earnest now, not just the materiel and military support it’s been offering until now. It means the draft will increase, taking more and more men to the front. Bucky’s team is already near half women, because the men are gone and the demand for steel just keeps increasing. 

There’s one girl, Connie, who Bucky thinks he’ll recommend for his own position when he goes off to war. Sometimes he wonders if she’ll still be around when he gets back. If he gets back. If Steve still won’t have him.

On his way out, he lets the foreman know where he’s going, asks Connie on a date, and leaves. He has to go. If he doesn’t enlist now, Steve will lose the last remaining threads of respect for him. Bucky’s pretty sure he’ll lose them for himself. 

When he gets home, it’s after dark and Steve’s in the kitchen with an untouched mug of coffee, looking miserable. 

His gaze flickers—angry, then confused—when Bucky walks in. “You’re not drunk.”

It hurts to know that’s Steve’s first thought. Bucky just holds out the paper to him. His enlistment papers, stamped with 1A. 

Steve looks them over in shock, then lifts his eyes to Bucky’s face. “I’m proud of you, Buck.”

Bucky wishes he felt even the slightest bit proud of himself. Instead, he feels scared and sick. At least if he dies over there, Steve will remember him as a hero instead of as the coward that he is.

He aches to reach for Steve. It’s done, at last, and he wants to be forgiven. He wants a kiss, he wants to tumble into Steve’s bed and finally feel warm again. But it’s been too long. There’s too much space between them.

Bucky holds out his hand. Steve puts the letter into it.

~

Boot camp is agonizing. Bucky didn’t think it was possible for anything to be worse than the past years he’s been in the doghouse with Steve, but it is. It isn’t the physical exhaustion. He’s used to hard work, and the challenge feels good. It’s the knowledge that Steve’s no longer just on the other side of a thin wall. 

If Steve has a coughing fit, no one will know. No one will be there to bring him hot water with honey. No one will be around to worry over him. And soon it’ll be an ocean between them. 

~

He loiters around Brooklyn while he waits for the orders to ship out. He’s living on the army base now, dressing in his uniform. It’s kept flawless, and he wears his hat cocked. 

Steve’s already found a renter for his room. Bucky keeps himself from asking if the guy’s handsome. 

(He’s not. He’s a half-starved Polish refugee, all elbows, who looks constantly like he’s expecting to be kicked.)

When Bucky gets his orders, he goes looking for Steve.

It’s the first question Steve asks these days. Some days it’s the only question. _Did you get your orders?_

Turns out he’s not at home, so Bucky goes looking at the theater. Steve’s often there, watching the latest news from the front. Unsurprisingly, Bucky finds him in the back alley losing a fist fight. These days, those are more and more frequent. It makes him wonder what will happen if Steve keeps picking fights when Bucky’s not around to pull him out of them and to talk him down from his passionate furies. 

But he can’t afford to wonder. There’s nothing he can do but drag Steve out on a date with Connie and her friend and pretend that everything’s fine. Connie is a doll, sharp as a tack and always good-natured, but Steve barely talks, which makes Connie’s friend cold and prickly in return. 

Bucky keeps doing this, dragging Steve on dates. It helps him pretend that everything’s fine, that he’s not walking around with a Steve-shaped hole in his chest. He keeps hoping that if Steve meets the right girl, it’ll calm him down, and he won’t resent it so hard that he can’t fight and protect people the way that he wants. Maybe there’s a girl out there who can fill the hole in Steve’s chest, because Bucky tried and couldn’t. No matter how much he wants to be, Bucky isn’t what Steve needs. 

The last time Bucky sees Steve is standing in front of a recruitment center on the edge of the Stark expo. His Steve—his Captain—looking painfully serious and determined, even though he’s gonna get rejected again, just like he always does. 

Bucky hugs him, and grins at him, like they’re fine, like he’s not shipping out to die first thing in the morning and leaving behind Steve to rot in his own bitterness. He wants to say something sincere: that he loves Steve, that he’ll do his best to be strong because he wants to make his Stevie proud, that he has faith that Steve will do something great—he’ll change the world, he was always destined for great things. But the words all die in his throat, and Bucky just gives him a cheeky salute and walks away.

~

He dreams about Steve. He dreams about sun-dapped abandoned lots in the city, with condemned buildings on either side full of gaping windows like bullet wounds, and Steve following him in through the fence. Broken glass crunches under their feet, but Steve holds tight to his hand and keeps up no matter what Bucky’s pace, back in the days when it was Bucky who caused all the trouble and got them into fights and it was Steve’s sweet-talking tongue who got them out of it.

But the dreams always turn dark, when the glass underfoot twists into metal and goes barbed, and the dusty, sun-baked grass slicks into mud that’s mixed of rain and blood, and it’s dark, always dark, even by day it’s dark because the sky is brown with gunpowder and it tastes like death and every day Bucky wonders how soon before Germany violates the Geneva Protocol and he knows that Italy used mustard gas in Ethiopia in 1936 and one of these days he’ll wake up breathing poison.

And in the dreams, Steve is there. Bucky sees him on the faces of the men who die beside him, choking on their own blood with bullets in their lungs, and on the faces of the men he kills. 

Bodies look up at him from the mud. Human bodies, pale and dark and warped in death.

He sees Steve’s skinny arms on a boy who’s too young to be at war, and Steve’s sharp features on a dead villager with his child in his arms.

Steve kisses him and then whispers in his ear that he knows, that Bucky was always a coward and he _knows_ and that was why Steve stopped loving him.

They get pinned down by weapons that are impossible, and the whole unit—a whole score of units—gets dragged into this science base that isn’t Nazi, it’s Hydra, and Bucky isn’t even sure what that means but he knows that the dreams are getting worse. He can’t tell up from down and life from dream anymore.

The POWs in the cells take to swapping stories, and Bucky tells them about Steve, because it’s all he wants to talk about. Nothing else is worth thought or breath. Not if he’s going to die. If he’s going to be tortured to death by a group even crazier than the Nazis, he wants his last thoughts to be about Steve.

Every day they come and take men away. Most of the time, after that, the bodies get dragged down to the furnaces a few hours later. Sometimes the bodies don’t come back at all, or they come back days later covered in sackcloth and carried gingerly by nauseated Hydra recruits. 

When they take Bucky away, he doesn’t come back. 

Strangely, the dreams get nicer.

Steve lays with him in a meadow, in some version of Alsace that wasn’t invaded by the Germans and is still green and lush and safe, and leans over to kiss him with a smile.

The men stick needles in his arm and put chemicals into him. They stick needles in his arm and take blood out of him. They run tests, and then more tests. Bucky blinks dazedly at them. When they ask him questions, he tells them his name, rank, and serial number.

It’s the summer of 1927 and he’s home in bed with the flu. Outside, the night is bright with lanterns and laughter. The whole world is rejoicing in the heat of a summer that will never end, a prosperity that will last forever, and the whole city has become nocturnal with reckless joy. 

Bony knuckles tap at his window, the familiar rap-tap, rap-tap-tap that means it’s Steve, although it’s not like anyone else would’ve climbed up the fire escape to Bucky’s window. He unlatches it and tugs it open a crack. 

“You can’t come in. You’ll get sick.”

“I won’t, Buck. I’ll be okay.”

“You can’t get sick, you’re too scrawny.”

Steve wiggles in through the window anyway and nestles close to him in bed. Bucky’s skin is sticky and gross with sweat, but Steve doesn’t seem to care. 

Sargeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557.

His head spins, and he hears the familiar ratatatat of gunfire that means it’s Steve, although it’s not like anyone else would’ve… would’ve… 

He dreams of Steve as an angel. Golden skin glowing with health. Tall and strong like he never was, like he never could be, and the wings at his back are crafted from ivory and light.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, stretching toward his angel like he’s sunlight. Steve is life, he’s warmth, he’s everything. A smile breaks over his face, dazed and grateful, because if Steve is here it means he’s forgiven him. 

Steve hauls him out of bed and puts him on his feet. This is new, for a dream. Steve’s never come with him, never fought alongside him. 

Never been strong and solid, supporting Bucky against a muscular chest. He looks at Bucky with worry, says, “I thought you were dead.”

The dream tips sideways, and the lighting changes. Steve isn’t glowing anymore. He looks worried. His jaw is broad and set with determination. He looks like a soldier, a leader, and Bucky’s confused because his angel no longer looks like Steve the way Bucky sees him, but Steve the way he always wanted himself to be. “I thought you were smaller.”

“C’mon,” Steve says, pulling him along, and Bucky goes, even though he can barely stand. He’s back in the war, and he understands that. He’s following Steve into a fight, and he understands _that_.

It’s just all the other details that are fuzzy.

This dream doesn’t make sense, and Bucky doesn’t like it.

~

It isn’t a dream. He’s not sure what it is. Bucky sits on a fallen log, staring at a pile of pine needles, because if he looks at anything else he’s going to puke or cry or wake up. 

Captain America is nearby, discussing routes with some of the men. He’s tall, strong, handsome. The ideal man. The perfect symbol of American nationalism and hope. Not the kind of deviant who would want to tie up his queerie childhood friend and kiss him breathless. 

Steve’s right here, and he feels farther than ever.

When they’ve rested a few hours, enough for the worst injured of the men to get patched up, they’ll have to keep moving, hiking back through enemy territory. They’re on radio silence, because they can’t risk anything else, and they can’t even be sure that there will still be a camp waiting for them. 

Steve hovers. Keeping Bucky at his side even though Bucky’s not talking, he drops an arm around Bucky’s shoulders to steady him when Bucky stumbles. 

Heat radiates off him. Captain America’s hand is like a brand on his shoulder. Steve’s hands were always cold.

When he sleeps, Captain America keeps watch over him. Bucky’s not allowed out of his sight, and he’s grateful for that. This may not be his Steve, but it’s the closest thing that exists anymore.

When they get back to camp, everyone is debriefed. 

No one mentions that Bucky was separated for the group for days, strapped to a table in Zola’s lab. Not the men, not Captain America, not Bucky. 

He doesn’t tell anyone that he feels like there’s a chill in his blood that wasn’t there before. His vision has improved. He’s still shaky on his feet. He’s always cold. It’s hard to tell which of these things are relevant, so he keeps his mouth shut on all of them.

There’s a dame with the group. She’s beautiful, intelligent, competent, tough. Bucky’s just about floored by her, even despite how dead he feels and how hopelessly in love with Steve—Captain America?—he still is. She glows every time she looks at Steve, although that’s no surprise now that Steve wears on the outside all the traits Bucky always saw inside him.

She doesn’t even blink when Bucky flirts with her. Neither does Steve.

Bucky holds out his glass to be refilled. Along with the whiskey, bartender gives him an inviting smile. It’s tempting, but right now Bucky’s too damaged to even think about it.

He drinks until the alcohol makes his head spin, and he thinks he might puke. Feeling sufficiently self-destructive for one evening, he sways to his feet. Steve’s across the room, talking with Agent Carter. Bucky leaves while he’s not looking.

His assigned barracks are punishingly far from here, and Bucky’s never been this drunk. He’s going to end up lost somewhere in bombed-out London, and it’s starting to rain. Bucky can’t bring himself to care.

“Bucky!”

Maybe he’s drunk enough to be hallucinating. 

But then Steve’s hands settle on his shoulders, eyes worried. “Buck, you’re recovering. You shouldn’t have drunk so much. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky slurs. 

“You’re not. Come on. Why don’t you come back to my quarters? They’re closer, and I have this ridiculously big bed.”

“I’m _fine_.” Pushing away, Bucky stumbles and almost falls. Instantly, he’s caught in Steve’s arms, closer this time. 

“Do you want me to order you?” Steve asks, voice low and warm.

Startled, Bucky’s head whips up. He hasn’t heard that tone from Steve in years. Eyes wide with hope, Bucky nods. “Really?”

“Really.”

Steve hooks his arm under Bucky’s shoulders, steering him down the street.

“What about your girl?”

“She’s not my girl, Buck. She’s real swell, but I’m in love with you. Always will be.”

“You’re not mad at me anymore?”

“I’m not. I wasn't. I was bitter and self-loathing, Buck. And I acted like an ass.”

Bucky leans into the arm around his chest, feeling warm for the first time in a month. "Yeah. So did I. I should've believed in you."

"You were right, though." Steve's lips press against Bucky's forehead, his arm secure and keeping him upright. "And I was so angry and disappointed with myself that I couldn't bear being _loved._ "

“Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me all this again when I’m sober, will ya?”

"I will. When you're sober, we're going to take some time and talk about us. We're going to sort this out, define what we are and what we need. And we're going to do this right this time. Okay?"

"Okay."

Steve’s bed really is big, and soft. Bucky’s never felt anything so nice. And when Steve curls up against his back, cradling Bucky protectively against his chest, Bucky thinks that maybe this new Steve is okay after all.

Bucky’s disgustingly hung over the next day, but he feels more himself than he has in years. Steve kisses him, complains about his breath, and then refuses to stop kissing him long enough for anything to be done about it. Bucky swats at him, laughing. Even though laughing hurts, Bucky missed this. He needs this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all: You may have noticed that it’s showing chapter 7/7 when I promised I was taking this fic through Winter Soldier. Reason being that the second half of the fic (after this chapter and post Winter Soldier) is going to have DRASTICALLY different tags on it, so I decided to wrap this neatly so that it works as a stand-alone, and the second half will be written as a sequel. So if you’d subscribed to the fic for updates you may instead consider subscribing on [my author page](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe_tops/) or [my tumblr](http://marlowe-tops.tumblr.com/) so that you’ll get the update when the sequel starts posting.

The next days are a blur of busy activity and dull waiting. Bucky stays constantly at Steve’s side and no one questions it. Or, if they do, Steve handles it quietly in one of the few minutes they’re parted. 

Steve has pull now. He’s proven himself as a hero as well as an icon, and he’s putting together a team from among the POWs from the Hydra base. Good men. Bucky knows some of them from the 107th and some of them from the Hydra cages, and he’s proud to be fighting alongside them. 

They settle easily into their new team.

The first time they’re setting up tents on the front lines, there’s a discussion of how to split the tents. As Captain, Steve gets his own tent, but there’s some discussion of whether Bucky as second in command should get his own tent even though Lieutenant Falsworth is technically higher ranked. Bucky’s about to speak up and object that it’s stupid for him to have his own tent, when Steve gets there first. “Bucky and I will share the small tent. The rest of the bunks can be split between the other two.”

Morita and Dugan glance between their superior officers and nod, accepting it.

Bucky’s eternally grateful for the team’s easy acceptance. It’s treated as a given that Bucky’s place is at Steve’s side. Everyone respects their lifelong friendship and they quickly respect Bucky’s competence and leadership, as well. The first time Jones rushes into their tent to get them and finds them sleeping on the same tiny cot, he stops short and gapes. Recovering quickly, he delivers his message, and after that everyone in the unit is careful to holler from outside of the tent if they want to fetch Steve or Bucky. 

About a month later, over breakfast, Jones says, “you know, if any of us were to ever… hear anything from your tent, I can’t imagine we’d be bothered by it.”

Steve goes bright red, and Bucky bristles, rising out of his chair. “Hey, now, what d’you mean by that?”

Falsworth clarifies. “We think the two of you should go ahead and fuck without worrying who’s going to hear it.”

Bucky’s so surprised that he sits down, speechless and blinking.

Steve bursts into laughter. When he gets himself back under control, he says, “we appreciate that.”

After that, it’s open season for teasing. Whenever the team is alone without having to worry about strangers listening, they start fondly teasing their officers. The two of them get stuck with the nickname “America’s Sweethearts.” There’s a new team hobby of teasing them to kiss and cheering when they comply.

A few weeks of this friendly, trusting acceptance is enough for Steve to relax enough to kiss and hold Bucky openly in the presence of their team. 

As much as Bucky hates the war, it’s the happiest time of his life. He has his Steve, his team, and his friends. Every time they’re not in battle, he feels like he’s home.

~

The whole team was sour about the mission—up in the middle of the nowhere in the alps in the middle of winter, and they were all going to damn near freeze—until Gabe and Frenchie came back from scouting. Both of them were babbling in excited French.

_”We found a place—“_

_“—a lodge—“_

_“—evacuated, looks like, and splendid as anything—“_

_“—real beds, fireplaces—“_

_“Oh and the best part—“_

_“Sign says it’s a_ thermalbad _—“_

_“—hot spring, please can we—“_

_“Please.“_

_“Please?“_

Grinning, Steve nods, and a cheer goes up. “Hey, now, I’m not promising anything. But we can take a look. If it’s really evacuated, we’ll stay, and we’ll find a way to pay our hosts back when we can.”

The team has never moved camp so fast.

The resort is as described—a spacious lodge, remote and abandoned, under a mile from where they’ll ambush the train tomorrow. They search the place quickly, finding it safe, and Falsworth comes in from the back door, bouncing. “There’s a guest house out back, all quiet and private, couple of big beds, we could draw straws for…” 

He trails off, looking at Steve. Some of the others also turn to look at Steve. 

“Cap gets it,” Dugan says, and everyone nods agreement. “We’ve got enough beds here to each have our own. The two of you deserve a night without the lot of us listening in, for once.”

Steve fidgets, like he’s going to be unselfish and refuse to accept without drawing straws.

“Please, Steve,” Bucky says, taking his hand. “Can we?”

Relaxing, Steve pulls him in with an arm around his waist. He still can’t say no when Bucky says ‘please.’ “Okay.”

The guest house is a cozy thing, with a couple of huge bedrooms and a bathroom that’s more than half bath. Bucky fills it from the spigot on the wall . The spring water smells of sulfur, but it’s wonderfully hot and plentiful. He cleans up, strips down and climbs in while Steve finishes checking over the house and building a fire in the bedroom.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Steve says. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Bucky watches openly, enjoying the view. “We aren’t meeting the train until the afternoon, you know. I could keep you up all night. We can sleep in, go another round in the morning…”

“What you’re saying is that I’m going to be doing this mission sleep-deprived, walking funny, and covered in love bites.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Steve slides into the water with him, pulling Bucky into his arms.

Smiling, Bucky straddles his lap, draping his arms over Steve’s shoulders and kissing him. Steve’s hands slide up his back, automatically starting to massage the tension out of his muscles.

As much as Bucky sometimes misses his scrawny, short Steve, the massages he gets from this Steve’s strong hands are incredible. He moans shamelessly into Steve’s mouth, thrilled that for once he doesn’t have to be quiet. 

Those hands slide down his spine, thumbs digging into the muscles, and then shift to cupping Bucky’s ass. 

“I took a shit,” Bucky says, nuzzling at Steve’s jaw. “Cleaned myself out. Before I got in.”

Steve gives a rumbling noise of approval. “Tell me what you want.”

Bucky doesn’t need long to consider. “Overpower me. I want to feel completely at your mercy. Safe and owned.” 

“It would be my pleasure.” Steve smiles and kisses him again. 

The kiss is slow and gentle, while one of his hands shifts between Bucky’s legs. He pushes one finger inside him, sliding it in fully and then just holding it there while the rest of his hand cradles Bucky’s ass. The gesture has more to do with intimacy and trust than anything. Bucky can feel his own pulse beating in the muscles around Steve’s finger. While the penetration is a turn on, it’s the intimacy of being held like this that really melts his heart and lets all his worries slip away. 

Steve just kisses him, not moving that finger while his tongue explores Bucky’s mouth. He’s only the slightest bit pushy about it. It’s just barely enough for Bucky to savor the possessiveness, but they both know that will ramp up as the evening goes on.

They stay like that, just kissing, until Bucky’s melted from heat and pleasure and his toes have gone all shriveled. Steve lets go and gets out carefully, gathering Bucky up into his arms and carrying him to bed. He’s never done that before, even though he now can lift Bucky like it’s nothing. He’s far too respectful of Bucky’s pride to ever carry him in anyone’s view. But for tonight they have a house to themselves, and Bucky needs to be allowed to be vulnerable. 

Steve tosses him gently onto the bed, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above Bucky’s head before kissing him again. His tongue flicks into Bucky’s mouth, throat making low, possessive little growls. 

Arousal spiking from _lazy_ to _needy_ in an instant, Bucky writhes up under him, rubbing every part of his body that he can reach against Steve’s.

Appreciative, Steve pulls back enough to nip at Bucky’s throat before he straddles Bucky’s hips, pinning them down with his weight so that Bucky’s movement is hampered. 

He grinds up anyway, offering himself for whatever Steve feels inclined to take. 

“Eager,” Steve teases him, his laugh soft and breathy against Bucky’s skin. He drags his lower lip across Bucky’s jugular, then latches on to the pulse point and sucks on it. He has a trick of pulling in suction with his lips while his tongue flickers maddeningly across the skin, and it’s absolutely unfair. He almost always leaves marks. The rest of their team will tease Bucky about it in the morning, and he’ll blush like a teenager and fidget while Steve sits across the camp looking like a cat in cream, the way he always does. 

Bucky knows why he does it. It’s for when they’re in towns and some girl—or sometimes a guy, it’s funny how those boundaries loosen in war zones—comes over to him all smiles. Until they see the intimate bruises along his throat the shape of someone’s mouth and they go red and make their apologies. Whenever this happens, Bucky glares over at Steve, who just looks pleased as Punch. 

Steve’s more careful about it on weeks where they’ll be reporting to superior officers. But when he’s not careful, the officers just lift their brows and Morita—bless him to hell and back—makes a comment about Bucky’s taste in girls.

Bucky’s breathless and whining by the time Steve decides he’s left enough marks and lets up. “I hate you,” Bucky complains, head spinning with pleasure.

“I’m going to tie you up,” Steve tells him, kissing his lips softly before he gets up. He’s gotten into the habit of using his belt to secure Bucky’s wrists, and sometimes Bucky gets turned on when Steve gets dressed or undressed, just for the slick sound of that leather belt going through beltloops.

Kissing him warmly once his wrists are secured to the headboard, Steve checks Bucky’s expression with a smile. “Blindfold okay?”

Bucky nods. They usually try to keep things pretty quiet and efficient when the rest of the team is listening in, but tonight Steve has evident plans to explore. He closes his eyes as Steve ties a clean kerchief over them, taking a deep breath as he relaxes into the powerlessness of being at Steve’s mercy. 

“You’re mine, you know that?” Steve asks, a light fingertip grazing down Bucky’s side. It tickles just slightly, and that makes Bucky twitch. 

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good,” Steve says, kissing Bucky’s chest. “You look beautiful like this, Buck. Tied up and flushed. Completely lost to pleasure.” 

Bucky can almost hear the grin in the words, and he blushes harder at how good Steve’s approval feels. “All yours.”

“All mine,” Steve agrees, running the fingertips of both hands down Bucky’s sides, tickling intentionally this time.

Squeaking, Bucky arches up off the bed and Steve _laughs_ , punk that he is. His fingers quicken, tickling Bucky mercilessly. He changes the pattern of tickling constantly, keeping Bucky’s skin sensitized and body shuddering, and Bucky laughs and gasps beneath him, trying to find the words to beg for mercy. 

“Steve!” he yelps, laughing and trying to squirm away from the maddening, tantalizing hands on his waist, “oh, hell, fuck you, you unbelievable shrimp, you cock, you—“ Bucky shrieks, dissolving into laughter as Steve shuts him up by redoubling his attack until Bucky can’t do anything but gasp and twitch.

He’s panting and shivering when Steve stops, body still shuddering from the aftershocks of it. Steve shifts above him and Bucky’s whole body _twitches_ in reaction even though Steve hasn’t touched him, and it makes Steve laugh, kissing him chastely before pulling away. “I’m going to fetch something from outside. Stay right here.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Bucky sasses, knowing damn well that he’s securely bound and couldn’t move if he wanted to. He does wonder what the hell Steve’s getting from outside. It’s not like there’s much out there but snow and trees.

Maybe he’s getting a pine switch to lash him with. Bucky shudders with nervous desire. 

When Steve comes back, he sets something on the bedside table with a soft thunk—a bowl, maybe? Bucky’s head tilts toward it, interested in what Steve has in mind. 

And then _ice_ touches his nipple and Bucky _yelps_ in surprise. “Fuck! What the _fuck_?” 

Steve laughs at his reaction, the dick, rubbing the ice against his nipple for a few more seconds before he lifts it off and replaces it with his mouth.

“Holy Jesus shit,” Bucky gasps, all of the nerves in his nipple lit up from the bite of the ice and then the relative searing heat of Steve’s tongue. Taking a few seconds to flick his tongue over Bucky’s nipple, Steve pulls back with one last kiss to the skin before repeating the process with his other nipple.

“God’s _balls_ ,” Bucky swears, pulling hard at his restraints. 

“Language,” Steve scolds, sinking his mouth down to play with that one even while his hand holds the ice over Bucky’s other nipple. He keeps this up for a few more rounds, and then starts trailing the ice down Bucky’s chest, drawing torturous patterns over his belly and hips. “Good?”

“Yes.” Bucky whines, and the piece of ice slides down to the crease of where his hip meets his pelvis, gliding along the edge of it and then up the bottom of Bucky’s cock. He yelps, arching fully off the bed and feeling genuinely conflicted about whether to grind into it or to pull away.

“Part your legs,” Steve says.

Whimpering nervously, Bucky spreads his legs. Steve slicks the ice up his inner thighs, making Bucky writhe and shiver as he teases him, constantly moving higher with the ice until it’s rubbing slow little circles against Bucky’s hole.

“Steve,” he says, biting nervously at his lips as Steve starts to nudge the ice inside of him. It’s now mostly melted, smaller than Steve’s pinky, but it’s _cold_. Bucky feels all his nerves firing at the sensation as it slides into him. Steve pushes it all the way in and lets go, leaning up to kiss him. 

“You _bastard_ ,” Bucky moans against his lips, shuddering. The ice sets a low ache into his gut that throbs into arousal in his balls and cock. 

“Mm,” Steve agrees, kissing him while one finger rubs around the rim of Bucky’s hole, making Bucky grind his hips eagerly up into it. 

The ice is melting quickly inside him, and Bucky’s pretty sure he’s gone insane when he starts thinking about wanting—“More.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, pulling away and stretching toward that bowl. 

The next piece of ice touches his lips. 

“Open,” Steve orders. 

Groaning, Bucky parts his lips, flicking his tongue out and then sucking the piece of ice inside. It’s long and phallic, with sharp, blunt edges near the tip—oh, he gets it now. Steve must have pulled icicles off the edges of the roof and broken them into pieces. This particular piece is lengthy, and Bucky’s absolutely certain that Steve chose it because it’s so phallic.

Fellating shamelessly, Bucky whimpers and moans when he can, sucking on the ice and wanting Steve’s cock in his mouth instead. Or in his ass.

“Good boy,” Steve praises, taking the ice back and kissing him again. Bucky sucks on Steve’s tongue and whines pleadingly, spreading his legs wider.

He probably should be expecting it when that ice presses against his ass, all its edges softened by Bucky’s mouth. Instead, he gasps, moaning as it breaches him and slides inside. It burns with sensation, and Bucky ruts up against it, trying to get more of it. It grows thicker the farther in it goes, and Steve thrusts it into him slowly, letting Bucky feel the stretch in his muscles. He keens as it slides in deep enough that it’s about the thickness of Steve’s cock, filling him up obscenely. The cold of it aches, sinking icy teeth into Bucky’s prostate and making it swell and throb. 

“Fuck, please, Stevie, please, please fuck me,” Bucky babbles, begging without any compunction as Steve fucks him on the icicle. “Make me all yours, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you, please, Stevie, fill me up, need you, god, fuck— _please_.” 

There’s an appreciative growl from above him, because Steve always loves it when Bucky gets desperate enough to beg. Steve holds the icicle in place, and Bucky can hear him open the little bottle of oil that they always carry with them, slicking himself up. The icicle clatters as it hits the floor, and then Steve is inside him, burning with heat against Bucky’s tingling nerves.

He howls, lifting his hips hard so that he can get Steve in to the hilt, and fuck, it’s the most phenomenal feeling. His thighs are shaking, every cell in his body feels like it’s exploding with fireworks, and the orgasm hits him out of nowhere. It’s fast and intense, and Bucky gasps like he can’t breathe as it slams through him and drops him. 

“Shit, Bucky,” Steve gasps, sounding impressed.

Bucky just whimpers once at him, trying to remember how to breathe. Steve pulls out, adds more oil, and just slides right back in, making Bucky groan. 

He holds there, remaining still while Bucky recovers. Reaching up, Steve unties the blindfold, tugging it off him and meeting Bucky’s eyes with a warm smile. 

“Wow,” Bucky says, still breathless and stunned. 

“You okay?” 

“I like ice,” Bucky says, grinning. Steve thrusts inside him once, to make Bucky moan and arch. “Reminds me of when you used to finger me and your fingers were so damn cold.”

“Oh, fuck you, Barnes.”

“Yes, please.”

Steve laughs, kissing him hard as he starts to roll his hips deep inside of Bucky, again and again. It feels amazing, riding the edge of pleasure and overstimulation, and Steve’s pounding against his prostate in a way that would feel intense even if he wasn’t still high from the orgasm and tingling from the ice.

“You’re too sassy.” Steve grins, warm and fond. “Going to have to do something about that smart mouth of yours.”

“Fuck it?”

“Maybe later.” Steve thrusts hard and then stays buried deep, reaching up to loosen the belt around Bucky’s wrists. “Turn over. On your knees.”

It’s hard not to gape at him when Steve follows up that statement by pulling out and slowly stroking himself while he waits for obedience. Quickly, Bucky rolls over, spreading his thighs and arching his back to present himself.

“Very nice,” Steve says, letting his full, heavy cock rest along the crease of Bucky’s ass. “Spread your cheeks.”

Breath catching, Bucky shifts so that he can reach back and grab his ass with both hands, spreading it open for Steve. The position means he can’t hold himself up on his elbows, so his cheek is squished against the mattress and it’s uncomfortable but that somehow makes it even more arousing. Bucky’s not sure he ever got soft after his last orgasm, he’s just up and hard and needing more even though he’s still oversensitive. 

When Steve thrusts back in, Bucky mewls at the intense pleasure. It feels so good, and he needs it so much. “Steve.”

“All for you, Buck. I’ll take care of you, I promise.” Steve’s pace is slow and deep now, pounding against his prostate relentlessly. It feels like it’s swelling, and he aches for more. “You mean so much to me. Love you so damn much. My Bucky.”

Steve’s hand skims down his back, palm hot against Bucky’s sweaty skin, and then he stretches an arm over Bucky, grabbing another piece of ice from the bowl. Bucky yelps, even though nothing’s touched him yet, and then that ice repeats the trail of Steve’s hand straight up his spine. Moaning loudly, Bucky quivers under him, overwhelmed by the contrasting hot and cold of Steve’s cock buried inside him and the exquisite chill of the ice against his skin.

“Feel good?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky gasps.

“You feel so hot and perfect around me, Buck. Do you like having me buried inside of you like this?”

Bucky nods helplessly, speechless with need. 

Steve bends down over him, which changes the angle of the cock inside him and makes Bucky yelp again, and kisses the back of Bucky’s neck. “You’re all mine, handsome.”

Dazed with lust, Bucky winces his eyes shut, focusing on the slow waves of building need and pleasure spiraling through his body as Steve thrusts into him. 

“You close, Buck?” Steve asks, his blunt nails skimming down through the drops of melted water on Bucky’s back.

Whimpering in responds, Bucky shifts slightly, focusing on letting Steve push him over the edge of the need. When he comes this time, it’s slow and deep and he spurts out jet after jet of come across the sheets. Steve follows him almost immediately, spilling himself inside Bucky.

Pulling out, Steve hugs Bucky into his arms and kisses at the back of his neck. “You know what?”

Bucky grunts, incapable of words.

“There’s a second bed that we haven’t gotten all wet.”

Huffing out a laugh, Bucky nestles back against him. Steve gets up, gathering Bucky into his arms, and they move to the other room, curling into the bed with their arms tangled around each other. 

“I’m waking you up in an hour for more sex,” Steve warns.

Bucky bites his cheekbone. Never mind that the mark will fade almost as soon as it’s made. He deserves it.

Steve laughs happily at the bite, hugging Bucky close and keeping him warm while they sleep.


End file.
